Winter Eyes
by kjkdhfakjbfsdsa
Summary: After a scarring encounter in the woods, Alfred is reunited with his long-lost brother, though 'Matty' is slightly... different. Eventual Wendigo!Canada/America. Warnings inside. Rated M to be safe, and for future chapters. Reviews are love!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note~**

Hello! :3

Okay, so, very first fanfiction. Ever. After reading fanfiction for three years, I figured it was high time to write one. In any case, this means that the story will probably be unnecessarily long and slightly ramble-y. I warned you. Also, I'm an artist, not a writer. Feel free to point out any mistakes you find.

**Speaking of warnings** (were we speaking of warnings?)... At the moment: Relatively unplanned plot, Human names, un-betaed, OOC-ness, slight horror, perhaps gore or yaoi in future chapters. Nothing too graphic, I'd most likely butcher the entire story if I tried that. Oh, and Alfred's language. Not so much in the first chapter, though, if my memory serves me correctly. Future chapters may have updated warnings, too.

In any case, I've actually written like ten thousand words for this fic, I just need to read them over before posting. So rest assured that this will be updated, probably like crazy for the first week or so. And that it will be long. Need space for all that rambling.

And, finally, if you review this fic then I will love you forever. Seriously.

Constructive criticism is welcome, too, if that's what you're into.

Thanks for reading! :')

...

Out of all the things to notice first, it was his eyes. Purple specks that managed to catch the light, drowned in a border of shadowed _black_. Sunken, unblinking, inhuman in every possible way. They caught my eyes and stared in return, a stalemate of predator and prey.

I shifted on my feet. Weight from one side to the other. The creature noticed.

It moved closer, legs bent at the knees like those of a deer. I watched as the shadows of the trees fell from its skin, revealing a stretched canvass of snow-white that caught every valley and ridge of bone as it passed over the body. Ankles, knees, ribs—all were caught with such startling clarity that it surprised me, for a moment, that this creature managed to stay alive. How could any creature, monster or not, manage to live in such an emaciated body?

The next thing that I noticed, as my eyes travelled upwards, was its collarbone, then its chin and jaw and _mouth_. Unhealed wounds wove their arms around the creature's lips, a startling contrast of deep red against the white skin. Dried blood stretched its arms down the creature's neck and onto its chest. Fresh blood dripped from its mouth onto the snow at its feet, a steady rhythm in such a quiet atmosphere. The blood did quite a good job of giving the creature the convincing look of I-just-murdered-something-and-ripped-its-throat-out-with-my-teeth, which was not a look that I necessarily needed to stare in the face.

And then, just as the shivers had made their way from the back of my neck to my tailbone, I noticed its horns—previously shadowed by the overhanging forest, they emerged from the creature's dirty, golden hair like concentrated barbed wire. They reminded me of a deer's antlers, if the soft velvet had been worn away to reveal a wooden black underneath.

The entire creature, minus the blood dripping from its mouth, looked like a badly put-together skeleton with a white sheet stretched over it. It was, in every way possible, the single most horrifying creature that I had ever laid eyes on.

I screamed.

And ran.

From the clearing, the creature looked on, unmoving. I could feel the gaze of its violet eyes digging into the back of my neck as I made for the road.

...

I had grown up in a small-ish town, about forty minutes from a large city. We drove down there pretty often, my mother and I. We used to take my brother, too, but he disappeared when we were eight. The police told us he had most likely gotten lost in the forest. Never found his way out. Being twins, it was pretty hard on me—it felt like I was missing half of myself. We had been pretty close. Even today, the thought of my brother—Matthew—struck an uncomfortable twinge in my chest. I tried not to think about him.

In any case, my mother always warned me about the forest, after Matt disappeared. Strange visions of monsters and demons filled my head when my mother told her stories, leading to the consequential nightmares and bed-wetting episodes that I'd rather not think back on.

At first, I blamed her for it. What mother would willingly put terrifying thoughts in her child's mind? A child that she knew _quite well_ could not handle horror. There had been quite a few horror movies that I had insisted on watching, as a child. She saw my reactions. And yet, the stories still came.

Now, though, I knew not to blame her for the stories. The thought of monsters and untimely death kept me far from the forest, and, in her eyes at least, bedwetting episodes and night terrors were much, much better than the loss of another child.

Matt was already gone. She needed me.

We had become quite close after my brother's death, and I liked to think that I had become a better son. I had become a better person, at least; mostly to please my mother. After all, Matt was always the good one; the nice one, the good student, the respectful child. Without him, I needed to fill in that role, too. Be my mother's hero. So I made a conscious effort to stop skipping classes, to watch my language, all that crap that mattered to parents. It seemed to be working nicely, too. My mother, at least, lost that undertone of stress that always hid in her eyes.

She knew what I was doing, sure. Maybe, in a way, this made it worse—I wasn't actually _becoming_ a better person, I was just building myself a fake identity. But at least she didn't have to worry about me, not anymore.

And if that made her happy, so be it.

Life continued.

...

It was Friday, and I would usually be walking home with my friends. Today, though, I was alone. My friends had noticed my "changing" and were, in simple terms, not very happy about it. Sure, it hurt a bit to see them go, even if they never said it outright. I still hung out with them.

But I couldn't be the hero to everybody (or so my mother had told me), so I tried my best to let it go.

I joked.

I smiled.

I attended my classes.

And when I went home at the end of the day, my mother would be holding the shadow of a smile on her lips, stress-free and a phone line empty of any calls from the school.

Not that Friday, though.

I was carrying my binder under my arm, too lazy to open my backpack and shove it in. Between all the crap that I shoved in to my bag, there wasn't much room, anyways. I made a mental note to clean it out soon, knowing it wouldn't happen. Still, the "mental note" thing made me feel a tad more responsible.

I was walking past the forest. The main road, the one that stretched from the city to our town, also happened to lead to a series of small roadways that lead to my school. And so, after school ended, I'd walk home—twenty minutes max, maybe thirty in bad weather. Ten of those minutes would be walking the main road along the forest's border, before the silhouettes of buildings made their appearance from behind the trees.

I kept watching for those silhouettes, eager to get home. The air was getting colder as of late, warm enough but with a chilling undertone. Not too comfortable when the only thing you were wearing was a beaten-down bomber jacket. The fur holding onto the collar dug into my neck, bristles sharp and stressed from a light wind.

A car drove past. Red with mud soaked tires, and the head of a half-asleep dog stuck out the passenger window.

Another vehicle, this one a truck.

Another.

And then, a sound from the forest, which made me jump. I watched my binder fall onto the pavement, history papers spread out in an arch. Yeah, I was old enough to know that my mom's stories were fake, but come on, childhood trauma, here.

I told myself to stop being an idiot and to pick up my papers before the wind did.

A bit too late, I watched a few pages catch the wind and fly off between the trees. Not caring all that much, I grabbed the rest, stacking them messily and shoving them back into my binder. Still too lazy to open my knapsack, I decided not to drop my binder again. I'd hold it tighter. It would work out.

But then I thought of the noise, a bit too unnatural to be categorized as a leaf or a snapped twig. A bear, maybe? No... They never came this close to the road.

And then a new, somewhat unwelcome thought.

_Matty?_

I kicked myself for that. I had lost. I knew it, too. _Fuck, _I told myself, a bit pissed off at my stupidity. _Now you're gonna go run into the forest like the hero you are. Get eaten by a freaking bear. This is why people think you're an idiot, you know._

In my mind, of course, I knew that Matt was dead. Starvation, maybe? Frostbite? It had been around this time in the year when he had gone missing. A few more weeks and the cold would kill. But I also knew that, if I went home, there would have been a tiny chance that Matt was still alive.

And if we found him in a month, dead after surviving for all those years, I would never forgive myself for giving up my one chance at saving him.

Yeah, I knew it wasn't Matt to make that noise. But regret's a heavy thing to carry on your shoulders, and I'm not one to drop that sort of stuff.

I didn't bother trying to talk myself out of it.

In any case, the papers that had blown into the forest could very well have been important, maybe due on Monday for some previously unknown assignment. My mom would be pissed if I didn't get them in.

And so, with a lame excuse for utter stupidity and the words "_the stories were lies, you know" _running through my head, I made my way into the forest.

My binder, blue and muddied and abandoned, lay on the pavement of the main road.

I'd come back for it.

...

The forest was thick and suffocating, drenched in the dying leaves of early fall. A thin layer of frost covered the ground as the trees got thicker and thicker, until my entire world had been reduced to a darkened orb of nothingness. No sky. No light. No daytime, but no night-time, either.

Just trees.

I tested my voice.

"Matt?"

The forest was strangely quiet, so I would have heard an answer if Matt had been there. Nothing came. I decided to give myself two minutes to continue before turning back. What was the point of false hope, anyways?

Matt was dead. I knew that.

I tried again.

"Yo, Matty, you there?"

A scuffling to my right. I whipped around, stories running wild in my head. I could count my heartbeat, running faster and faster in my chest. Seconds sped up.

One, two, three, four, beat after beat.

Was it Matt? Was it a deer, startled by my voice? Maybe a monster from my mother's tales, come from deep inside the forest to reinforce my fears.

"Matty?"

My voice was weaker now, not as loud.

Do not. Disturb. The beast.

All of a sudden, a form burst from the undergrowth and leapt straight at me. I shrieked, my voice echoing through the trees. I had fallen back. The beast leapt straight past my head, and in a moment of pure terror I caught sight of its horrid, frighteningly devilish _bushy tail_.

I met eyes with the creature as it perched on a twig next to me. A nervous laugh, more of a bark, came from my throat as I smiled and dropped my head back. The beast startled at my voice, scurrying away.

A squirrel.

Really, Alfred?

_You goddamn idiot._

For a minute or two, I lay there in the dying leaves, listening to my breath as my heart calmed in my chest. A smile was plastered on my face as I laughed at my idiocy, laughed at the squirrel and laughed for the adrenaline. Stories still held their place in my mind, but they didn't frighten me, not anymore. I always knew that there was really nothing to be afraid of.

And so, holding tightly onto what little pride I had left, I sauntered further into the forest with much more bravery and a much lower heart rate. I wasn't really looking for Matt, not anymore. But I wasn't looking for monsters, either.

In a way, I guess I was flaunting my invincibility. Monsters didn't exist, and the scariest things in this part of the forest, at least, were squirrels. I was top of the food chain. Untouchable. Super-Alfred.

Counting down the minute or so that I had given myself to continue, I determined to finish my brave quest and return to my home a hero. Leaves in hair and dirt on back. My jacket would need a good wash, after this.

And that's when I spotted it—a silhouette of black against the forest's shadows. It moved swiftly between the trees, coming to a quick stop as it was spotted. I saw the antlers.

A deer!

I loved deer—and yeah, I know that sounds unmanly and all, but they could totally take your eye out with their hoofs, and those antlers were pretty damn sharp. Totally badass. All in all, though, I guess I related them back to Matt. As a child, deers would often come to visit us, standing on the borders of our backyard and the surrounding forest. After we moved deeper into town, we didn't see them as much anymore, but I could still remember the way Matty would sit at the window and watch them.

God, he could sit there for an hour and not move an inch. I could never do that, but it didn't surprise me that he could. He was always so quiet, calm, shy—invisible. Like a deer.

I didn't believe in the afterlife, but for the year or so after my brother disappeared, it comforted me to think of him as a deer, running through the forest like a shadow. Unseen. Unheard. Beautiful. It suited him.

In front of me, the deer shifted, walking out into a small clearing. I couldn't see it fully; not yet, hidden as it was by the afternoon shadows.

I walked fully out into the clearing, expecting the deer to startle and run. It didn't. I was somewhat surprised at how trusting it was.

The clearing we stood in was small enough, and shadowed by the branches that hung over it. I couldn't see the deer at all, now, but I hadn't heard it run away, so it must've still been there.

I made a soft noise with my tongue, beckoning it forward.

_God, Al, it's not a cat._

Surprisingly enough, though, it did step forwards.

Into the clearing.

Standing on two legs and taller than I'd ever be.

Afterwards, I'd think back on it and not really remember what it actually looked like. My only memory of the incident included a sharp scream ripping from my throat, the feel of bark against my palm as I stumbled backwards, and a piercing violet on the back of my neck.

...

I locked the door when I got home.

Closed the windows, too.

Sat on the couch in the basement and sobbed.

Fear was paralysing. I didn't move for hours. Didn't eat. Didn't sleep.

My binder was still sitting, abandoned, on the main road.

It didn't even cross my mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**

Okay, as for warnings, this chapter doesn't really hold all that much new. A bit more language than the first chapter held, as was previously warned. Nothing hugely gory or horrifying happens, though. Just Alfie being scared.

Anyways, I hope you like this chapter, too~

...

The next day—Saturday—my mother asked me to go for a walk with her. In the forest. After I was old enough not to get lost, we had taken up walking again, as long as we'd go together. In any case, I refused, and after a few minutes of trying to convince me, she noted how pale I looked and told me to go sleep. She'd be back soon, she said. She'd wake me up. We'd have dinner.

The weekend passed like that. Excuses, pity. Sleep.

I confined myself to the couch in the basement, and my mother didn't ask why. I was a teenager, prone to do weird things. In a way, I was thankful that she didn't ask, thankful I had the basement to myself. I wasn't going upstairs, that was for sure. Too many windows.

Some people think basements are scary. In those two days, though, I learned to love that basement. It was safe. A refuge.

And so I sat there, cold and hungry and much too afraid to move, dreading an approaching Monday.

I listened to my iPod to pass the time.

The music stopped, after a while. No batteries.

I still didn't move.

My mom brought me food.

...

"Hey, mom? You know those stories you used to tell me?"

It was Monday, early in the morning, and I was sitting in my mother's car. I had convinced her to drive me to school, much too afraid to walk. I had yet to convince her to pick me up.

"Yeah," she replied, "the ones when you were little. Look, I'm sorry about those, but you always knew they weren't real, right?"

I coughed a bit, locking my eyes on my boots.

"Yeah," I said. "Of course."

"Is that what this is all about?"

There was a hint of concern in her voice, a hint of teasing.

I laughed. "No, mom, of course not. Just sick."

"Something going around at school?"

"Yeah," I replied. "We're hoping the teachers catch it."

"Alfred!"

We pulled around to the back of the school, where two doors were propped open. I knew that asking her to pick me up now wouldn't get me anywhere. I'd text her later, tell her I was feeling really sick and didn't want to walk home in the cold. Pull the sympathy card.

"Bye, mom."

School passed much too quickly.

...

At lunch—fourth period—I sat in the caf with my cell phone, waiting for my mom to reply to a text. My friends hadn't said anything about how quiet I was being, how jumpy and nervous I seemed. I guess they just figured it was caffeine. Maybe drugs. Maybe they just didn't really care, figuring that it was some new stage in the I'm-quiet-and-a-perfect-student phase I had shifted into.

Really, though, I didn't care what they thought. My mind was much too preoccupied on the "deer" that I had seen on Friday. I had spent the last few hours of school completely tuned out from the teachers, trying to convince myself that what I had seen was merely a figment of my imagination, built from subconscious fears born of stories. Childhood trauma could do that. And, in any case, hallucinations were a much more welcome idea than reality, especially when it came to walking zombie deer-men.

When my mother didn't reply to my texts, I headed up to the school's library and pulled out a few books to quell my curiosity. The librarian probably had a heart attack seeing the former Mr. Popular walking the length of the book isles, looking quite interested and not holding some sort of explosive or fart-bomb.

I found what I was looking for in the non-fiction section, after about twenty minutes of heavy duty searching. The library was an endless abyss of confusion for someone who maybe _touched_ a book once or twice a year.

I pulled out the book by its spine, a navy blue with gold lettering pressed into it. The book was ancient. I checked the date. 1970s.

_Myths and Legends of the Native Tribes of Northern America: Volume three, Mythical Beings_.

Sounded long and somewhat boring. I sat down at a table and opened it anyways.

The inside of the cover was an aged yellow, with recent pen drawings scrawled across its length by bored students. I scoffed at a few of them, read the names to see if I recognized any of the "artists". Nope. I flipped to the back.

The glossary. Bless my science teacher, I actually knew what to do with this.

A... antlers... nope, nothing. I flipped to the D's, looking for deer.

Deer: spirit with antlers. See "Wendigo".

I flipped to to the very end of the book, to the W's. Waziya, Weewilmeko, Wendigo. Page two hundred and thirty seven. More page flipping.

_The Wendigo, A Lost Spirit._

Sounded interesting enough. I glanced over the introduction paragraph.

_The Wendigo, belonging to mythology from northern American and Canadian legend, has long since been associated with cold climates, starvation, and desperation. Legend states that hunters of Algonquian tribes, resorting to cannibalism in periods of severe famine or prolonged winters, would become possessed by the spirit of a Wendigo..._

Yada yada yada. I flipped the page.

_The Wendigo, though described differently depending on the tribe, is usually characterized as an emaciated, pale being with a deer-like body and antlers protruding from its head. Holds a close resemblance with humans._

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

My mother had never told me about this; in her stories, it was always the usual, the _known_ monsters. Zombies, vampires, werewolves, demons. So how could I have possibly dreamt up such a creature, without knowing of its existence? At the moment, I was much too freaked out to consider the possibility of a coincidence. Closing the book and pushing it far to the side, I took out my cell phone, hoping to dear God that my mother had texted me back.

Inbox: one.

I let out a breath that I had been holding. My hands, I noticed, were shaking slightly. I was freaked out. I hadn't eaten properly in days. I selected the message, a fluorescent blue screen appearing on my cell.

Message received from 'Mom'. Message:

_Hey sweetheart, can't make it today. In a meeting. Will be home around 5. Really sorry! Will make dinner for you tonight, take a nap when you get home. See you later! Feel better! 3_

If the librarian hadn't been keeping such a close eye on me, I would have dropped to the ground and sobbed. Pretty loudly, too. Pictures of a Wendigo flashed through my head as I re-read the text.

Can't make it today.

In a meeting.

_Why now? Why today?_

I left the library, noticing how the librarian stared at me on the way out. I met his eyes and shot him a smile. He looked pretty confused.

Popular trouble maker, who has, most likely, never set foot in a library in his entire life, comes in, reads a book, freaks out, checks phone, and leaves.

I almost felt pity for him.

Almost.

I calculated how much energy it would take me to run home.

...

Too much, apparently.

The gravel road that I was currently walking on would give away to the main road in a few short seconds. I could see where they met. And beyond that, coming up to press against the main road, was the forest.

Huge. Tall. Extremely intimidating. And in it, waiting...

_Football tryouts would have really been worth your time, Alfred,_ I told myself. _Freaking lazy-ass habits are just gonna see you get eaten by a Wendigo._

Stupid couch. Stupid television. Stupid hamburgers.

Stupid meetings.

I was shaking pretty hard by the time I got to the main road, the type of nervous twitching that you get when you've turned out the light in your room and haven't yet made it to the safety of your bed. I probably looked pretty handicapped walking home like that, but I could care less if anyone saw me.

They didn't stare a should-be-mythological creature dead in the face. They could deal.

Walking home was taking too much time, so I sped up my pace. All that mattered was breaking past the forest and into the safety of the town. I itched for a car to drive by, ached for the presence of another human.

I didn't want to be alone. Not here. Not again.

I kept my eyes on the border of the forest, too. I didn't want to, but it was one of those moments when you really couldn't help it. I had given into my fear. I watched the trees for shadows, listened for sounds. Adrenaline kept my body on full attention as I walked, rather strangely, beside the forest.

And then, a shadow. A large one. A shriek caught in my throat and I stumbled backwards, almost falling into the dirt. I choked on the scream lodged in my throat as panic made itself all too apparent.

I couldn't look away.

The shadow didn't move.

Gathering what tiny bit of courage I had left, I forced my feet to move and I _ran._

Faster than I'd probably ever run before.

I ran right past the shadow, and, thank the gods, it didn't move. Was it my imagination? Perhaps. It didn't matter. My feet hit the dirt and I moved forwards, closer to the town, farther from the forest.

And then I heard it—a strangled voice, one that sounded as if it hadn't been used in quite a long time.

"Please."

It didn't matter, not now, not when my heart was pounding so heavily in my chest, not when tears had made their way onto my cheeks from pure terror.

Run. Faster. Move. Forwards.

I got home, eventually. After desperately fumbling with the lock, I pulled my way inside the house and slammed the door shut. The noise made me jump. I fell to the ground.

_Please, no, not me. Please. Please._

"Please."

The voice sounded inside my head again. For a moment, I thought it may have been my own voice, a part of me that was begging my legs to move and walk past the shadow.

I stumbled down the stairs and into the basement, collapsing on the couch and wishing myself to sleep.

You couldn't think when you were asleep.

You couldn't remember, when you were asleep.

The plaid cushions molded around my curled form, and I prayed for darkness.

...

When I woke up, my mother was sitting next to me, her legs draped over mine. A blanket had been thrown over my shoulders, and the small, portable television from her bedroom had been moved to the basement. The news was on.

My mother was holding a bowl of curry, the cheap kind that you buy pre-cooked at the superstore and heat up in the microwave. I watched as she picked through it, a pile of peas building in the corner.

In front of me, on the coffee table, was a bowl of soup.

I hated soup. Not enough salt. But right now, I was so, _so _thankful for it.

"Mom?" I croaked, immediately regretting my decision to speak. It sounded as if I had been crying. Which, now that I thought back on it, I probably had been.

"Not gonna lie, Alfred," she said, not bothering to take her eyes away from the television. "You look horrible."

"I know," I said.

"Are you in pain?"

I lied. "My head."

"I'll get you an Advil in a second. Wait for the commercial. You don't mind the tv being on, right?"

"Of course not," I said. If anything, I was thankful for the noise. It was distracting.

There were a few minutes of silence, in which I sat up and took the bowl of soup into my lap. It was cold in the basement, and the soup was warm. I pressed my hands against the bowl's sides.

"Mom," I said, "Can I stay home tomorrow?"

Now she looked over at me. "Of course, sweetheart."

I smiled.

"I felt your forehead when you were asleep," she continued, "And you didn't seem to have a fever. But you've seemed so... down, recently. Hiding in the basement and all. Stressed out. And so quiet, too."

I didn't respond, instead choosing to look down into my soup.

"You know, you can take a break from playing hero, at least until you get better."

I could hear her smile. A pitying one. She was always so nice to me; as if she were afraid I'd get up and leave.

"Forget your chores. You can make up for it next week. And tomorrow, I'll be working from home—documents and such. After I'm done, maybe we can take a walk, if you feel up to it. Fresh air will do you good."

A breath caught in my throat. I still didn't reply.

She seemed fine with it, though.

I watched the news with her, letting my soup grow cold. I ate half of it. An hour passed.

"I'm gonna go upstairs," my mom said. She picked up the remote and turned the tv off. "You get some sleep. I'll get you up at ten tomorrow."

I nodded.

"Alfred?"

I looked up.

"If this gets any worse, we're going to see the doctor."

I could tell she was a little freaked out. I was never this quiet. Not wanting her to stress about my 'sickness', I responded.

"It's fine, my friend had the same thing and he was good in a week. I think I caught it from him. It's nothing, really."

"Uhuh." My mom took my bowl of soup, stacking it atop of hers. "It's been four days, Al."

She went upstairs.

After a few seconds of simple math, I concluded that I had exactly three days to get over my fear.

Three days to convince myself that I was hallucinating.

Three days until the doctor found nothing wrong with me.

Three days until... what? Therapy? Schizophrenia medication?

Even though I knew I was prone to slight exaggerations, it could still happen. I couldn't put my mom through that.

_Three days, Alfred._

I fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**

Warnings for this chapter: Slight insanity, Sad!Alfred, angst. I promise you this fic will live up to its M rating, eventually. Just give me a few chapters, here. And thanks for the reviews, they make my day :'3 *sniff*

...

It was 'tomorrow'. My mother woke me up at ten, much too early, and I couldn't love her more.

_Thanks for letting me stay home. Thanks for not making me walk to school._

I had decided, in the hazy, minute-long world between sleeping and the waking life, that I'd man up and go on the walk she had suggested the night before. After all, my mother would be with me, so it would all be good. Heroes can be defeated alone, after all, but not when they have their sidekick with them.

Another act of sheer stupidity to talk myself into believing that I had hallucinated.

It would work. Oh yes, it definitely would.

I was invincible.

And then I woke up completely, about ten minutes after my mother left the basement. The cold sweat broke out just about the second that I hit the floor, after rolling off the couch. I was used to a bed much larger than a handful of cushions, after all.

But the consequential ache in my tailbone wasn't the top of my priorities, not that morning. Pain, I could deal with. Fear, not so much.

I had talked myself into going on the walk. Talked myself into leaving the safety of my basement. Talked myself—presence of mother or not—into going into the forest, and _willingly_. And now, of course, I couldn't back down. Even though only _I _was aware of my decision, giving up and staying home would be accepting defeat.

I had three days. Defeat was not an option, not when I had a mission to complete. A mission which I had lovingly named _Operation Fearless_.

Badass.

And so, after a morning of nervous snacking and nausea from gorging myself after not eating for three days, the moment arrived when my mother finished her work.

She came downstairs, looking relatively pleased with herself.

"Oh," she said, catching sight of me. "You're up. I was scared you'd fallen asleep after I came downstairs, this morning."

"Nope, quite awake," I said, smiling. A part of me desperately wanted her to have forgotten about the walk.

"So, you up for the walk?"

Fuck.

"Totally," I said, feigning interest.

I figured that I'd go into the forest, with my mother. I'd be nervous as all hell. And then, when we returned home after _nothing_ happened, I would be cured of all fears, and or hallucinations.

Impeccable planning, there.

I grabbed the most badass gear I could find without looking too suspicious. Black leather boots, the leather partially shredded from exposure to salt during the winter. I had been too lazy to use that leather-protecting stuff my mother always talked about, and in any case, I found that the jagged edges and ripped leather made them look all the more badass.

I threw on my bomber jacket, too. The back of it still held the dirt stains from the fall I had taken on Friday, but I loved that jacket more than anything. And, just like Spiderman wasn't a superhero until he put his suit on, the jacket was my sign of awesomeness. It was a requirement on missions as serious as this one.

My mom threw on her boots, too, and a light fall jacket. She excused herself to the washroom before we left, and I took that minute to slip into the kitchen.

I scanned the counter for what I was looking for, and when I didn't see it, I opened the top drawer under the counter. Slowly, so as not to make any noise.

There it was. The kitchen knife.

After gently picking it up and making sure it was the one I wanted (the blade was twice the length of my hand, serrated on one side and as sharp as hell), I slipped it carefully into a make-shift holder on my belt, watching the blade come through on the other side as I slid it in. I then did up my jacket, making sure it hid the knife.

It did.

I returned to the front hall, leaning against the door as I waited for my mother. Sure enough, she came out a few second later, and I smiled at her. She smiled back, completely unaware.

She opened the front door and we both exited the house, a few more seconds of waiting ensuing as she locked the door behind us.

"You look better today," she said. "Can you feel any difference from yesterday?"

"Yeah," I said, slipping my hands into my pockets. "I feel a lot better, actually." I could feel the cold metal of the knife through the thin fabric of my jacket.

It comforted me.

"That's good."

It was.

We quickly made our way down the steps, down the driveway, down the road. I glanced back at our house as the main road came into sight. We turned onto it, and the house disappeared behind a wall of trees.

I caught the sign at the corner of the street, announcing the name of the path we currently followed.

_Percival Road._

Pretty name. Not so pretty memories.

Still, my mother was beside me, I was feeling a lot less stressed out, and I had come quite close to convincing myself that the Wendigo I had seen had merely been a figment of my imagination, a sick coincidence played out by some bored gods with a horrible sense of humour.

Well, fuck them, they could look down from the clouds and see Alfred Jones walking, fearless, towards the forest where the hallucination took place.

Fearless.

I repeated the word in my head, each time convincing myself further that this was the right decision.

And anyways, even if the creature did exist (which it didn't), I had no reason to worry about it. I had built a "List of Confidence", as I liked to call it, earlier on that day. When waiting. I went over it in my head as we approached the forest.

One, I had walked in the forest many times before, with my mother, and the beast had never showed its face. Obviously, it only targeted those who were alone.

Two, I had only seen it once (for sure), after years of walking home on that same route, further proving the idea of a hallucination.

And three, when I _had _seen the beast, it had made no attempts to rip my guts out and/or eat me alive. This meant that I didn't really have to worry about it. The worst it could do would be to stand there and look threatening. No harm done.

And so I entered the forest relatively calmly, the extent of my worrying showing itself by my nails digging into my palms.

My mother kept glancing over at me, checking to see if I was alright. For a moment, I had almost forgotten about my 'sicknesses'. I sent her a reassuring smile. She took my hand in hers and we continued on. Though the action was a bit childish, I didn't resist, thankful for the presence of another human being. Thankful, too, for the small comfort.

A few minutes into the forest, there was a path, one that we followed quite often. Approaching it, I caught sight of a history paper, caught in the branches of a dying bush. Frost had coated its surface, cementing it to the dead limbs.

I had to hold back a laugh as we passed it.

Then we hit the pathway, and everything became that much more familiar, that much _safer_. I was still holding onto my mother's hand, and she seemed extremely happy that there had been no resistance to her show of affection.

In any case, it wasn't like anyone was going to see us out here.

My mother looked over at me.

"The stream?" she asked.

I nodded, smiling.

'The stream' was a place where we usually ended up when walking through the forest. I had been a constant visitor to it for as long as I could remember, and I could think of nothing as calming and happily nostalgic as the stream. If anything would take off that last bit of worry, that would be it.

We turned right at a fork in the pathway, left at the next one. I knew this path. Right, left, left, straight. Forty minutes to a half-hour rest, before returning home. That was our schedule. It always had been.

I looked over at my mother, continuously glancing over to make sure that she was still there. She seemed happy.

"Thanks for coming with me," she said. Her words were quiet. I realized why.

We had hardly ever walked in this forest, not after Matt disappeared.

"No problem," I said, a vague response to her vague statement. A hero wouldn't bring things up that didn't need to be resurrected. And, as my mother's hero, 'no problem' was all the answer that was necessary.

Her smile widened. It made me happy to see her happy.

We came to the stream after a good half hour of silence. As the weather had gotten colder, a thin layer of ice had formed over its surface. The water still ran underneath. During the winter, the water would freeze completely, and in the summer, there would usually be two or three weeks when the stream would be completely dry.

But the water always came back.

The stream ran through a small open space, empty of trees. Too small for a campsite but large enough for two or three people to sit in with plenty of extra space. What made it nice was the lack of dirt—The Canadian Shield, as Matt used to call it, ran its rocky back open and exposed through the clearing. Perfect to sit on without getting too dirty. And in the summer, the rock would always heat up to a perfect temperature.

I still held memories of Matt and I, laying sprawled out on the rock, hands dangling into the stream and toes kneading into the soft moss at the rock's end.

Now, though, everything was covered in ice or frost, beautiful but so _different_.

I was glad for it, too. Nostalgia wasn't necessarily a welcome feeling, not when it came on too strongly (which, in my experience, it had the annoying habit of doing).

We sat down on the rock, my mother leaning forwards to trail her gloved fingers across the frostbitten surface of the stream. Sometime she seemed so young. People said that was where I got my immaturity from, but scorn turned to sympathy when Matthew went missing. My mother, of all people, didn't deserve that. Not her.

I debated starting a conversation, but decided against it. Silence, at the moment, seemed to be the best option. Soon enough, though, the silence was broken by the dulled buzz of a cellphone, vibrating in the pocket of my mother's coat.

She pulled it out, flipping it open in her hand to read the caller display. A phone number was muttered under her breath.

"Shit," she said, "I gotta take this. Listen, I'll be a minute away, back on the path, okay?"

"Sure," I said. In reality, being left alone made me panic a little, but I wasn't about to tell her that.

My mother stood up to leave, her fingers playing with the keypad. "Call me if you need anything, okay, sweetheart?"

"Okay," I replied.

I watched my mother disappear into the trees.

The smell of her—vanilla, winter, microwave dinners—faded off into the frigid air.

And... Alone. Well, not quite, considering how close my mother was. But I heard her voice as it trailed off into the distance, caught between the trees.

"Fuck," I muttered, dragging my nails across the ice. "Please not now, please, please."

I waited.

Nothing happened.

For some reason, all the confidence that I had previously held trailed off with the voice of my mother. With her retreating form. With the unwelcome silence.

"Fuck."

I decided that I liked the sound of my own voice.

Actually, I liked the sound of _anything_—my nails scratching the stream's surface, the sound of a twig snapping in the background. I picked up a fist-sized rock that was lying beside me, raised it into the air and dropped it.

It hit the ground with a welcome _thud_, bouncing a little.

I picked it up again.

Dropped it again.

I didn't think, I just waited. For my mother to come back. Focused on the sound of nails against ice, rock against rock.

It was official. I was going insane.

_Yeah, but anything's better than clawing at your hair and screaming like a madman._

And now I was talking to myself.

After about ten minutes of dropping the rock, my arm started to ache. Not wanting to lose any precious sound, I contented myself with picking up a smaller rock, this one about an arms-length away. I leaned over, reaching for it. My fingers hit it, and it rolled over with a small _thunk_. A strange pattern seemed to grace the newly exposed side of the rock, but I picked it up anyways, figuring that the marks were just remnants of dirt or moss.

I was wrong.

Scratched into the flat surface was a word, four letters long and heart wrenchingly familiar.

MATT

Below that, the year my brother went missing.

I stared at the rock, dumbstruck. Turned it over in my hand. Ran my finger along the etched-in words.

_No. No. Please, God, no, not this._

I put the rock in my pocket, breath catching in my throat and heart beating all too fast. Both being familiar feelings over the past few days. I choked on a sob.

_Don't. Cry._

The rock felt smooth and warm after being held, and it fell nicely in my pocket, coming to rest against the blade of the knife, separated by the fabric.

I got up, scanning the area. Taking every rock I could see and brushing the dirt off, running it over in my hands. Looking for that familiar style of writing, smooth and neat and _perfect_ even when etched into rock.

Nothing.

My mind, numb from too many thoughts, told me to sit down. I did. To wait. I did.

My mother came back, cellphone tucked away in her pocket. She eyed me suspiciously, pressed her hand to my forehead.

"You look worse."

I didn't say anything, for fear of breaking down in tears. That, especially in such a nostalgic place, would be very un-heroic. Instead, I stood up, took my mother's hand and let her lead me to the main road. To our street, to our home. Up the steps, seemingly taller than they were before.

By legs ached. My lungs ached.

I went into the basement and closed the door, dinner being the very last thing on my mind. I threw of my jacket and boots and fell onto the couch, letting my body sink into the soft cushions. I could feel the tears sting my face, though I wasn't entirely aware that I was crying.

I fell asleep, the lights still on. The rock was nestled safely in my palm.

_Matt, _I thought, in a state of semi-awareness. _Matt, I'm sorry. I love you. I miss you. I'm sorry._

_..._

The next day was a blur, the rock sitting all too heavily in my pocket. I was at school. The knife was gone, back in the kitchen.

I didn't take my jacket off once, for fear of misplacing it. Fear of misplacing the rock.

My science teacher approached me at the end of third period, as all the other students filed into the hallway. The bell rang. I stood at his desk.

"You _are _aware that your science papers were due today, I assume?"

I imagined them, coated in frost, held up by dying branches.

"Alfred, you seemed out of it today. Is something wrong?"

I spoke quietly. "I'm sorry, sir, it's just... this is about the time my brother went missing."

My voice trailed off at the end. How many times had I used that as an excuse? How many times had I said that, not thinking of my brother whatsoever, desperate to skip class and cause trouble? Today, though, the excuse couldn't have been more true.

"Oh," my teacher responded. "Well, I see. I'm sorry. You have until Friday to get that assignment in; no marks will be deducted."

He was awkward. They all were. The conversation, now quite dead, hung limply in the air between us. I nodded to my teacher, exiting the room, trying to hold my tears in.

My brother's name sat in my pocket, weighing it down. It burned in my hand.

...

Truthfully, I don't remember the rest of the day. As was since Friday, I didn't have my binder with me, so I sat quietly in my classes doing the best not to be noticed. And then, as the bell rung to end fifth period, I left the school with a crowd of other kids, heading calmly towards the main road.

In seconds, I was alone. Nobody else lived in this direction, nobody travelled this way—not on foot, anyways. It was fine with me, though. I was no longer afraid of the 'Wendigo' that lived in the forest, only saddened by memories of my brother.

His disappearance was so long ago. Why couldn't I get over it?

I was close to the end of the forest, having already walked for fifteen minutes.

A pile of stones caught my attention.

They were placed in a neat pyramid, stacked atop a paper, which, on closer examination, turned out to be one of the missing pages from my binder. As always, it was covered in frost. As were the rocks. I picked one up.

Nothing. I let out my breath.

The next one; nothing, again. And then the third.

The fourth, though, as I slowly demolished the pyramid, held familiar scratch marks etched into its side.

_Remember Me._

Below that, another year, this one two years after my brother went missing.

Fifth, sixth, seventh rocks. Nothing. Tears hit the rocks I held, darkening their gray colour.

The eighth rock, though, held more words; _Come find me_. The date was earlier, a year after he disappeared.

Finally, the last rock, with the words_ Miss You _etched into its side. The date was three years after he left.

Three rocks, three years.

_Three. Fucking. Years._

Did that mean he was still out there?

I dropped the rocks into my pocket, four tiny spheres with the weight of the world as they held down my jacket.

"Miss you too, Matty."

My words startled me. They were rough, choked out. I realized that I was crying, quite heavily by now. When I stood up, wiping my eyes on my sleeves, the sky held a gray to mirror the stones. More questions.

_Who put them there? Was it Matt? Is he still alive? If he survived three years..._

I didn't want to think about it. I went home. Purple eyes, now mostly forgotten, trailed my steps.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**

Warnings for this chapter: Slight horror, Wendigo!Canada. This chapter's a little shorter, which I apologize for. Forgive me D': Also, please review? Please? (cue puppy eyes)

...

The next morning, Thursday, I remembered my mission. Curing myself by Friday, which happened to be tomorrow. It seemed nearly impossible, at the moment, as I'd taken on a new 'sickness'—terror to sadness. Seeing as I was too lazy to get up from the couch and _do something_, I ran over my options.

School would start in two hours. I was pretty much ready, having slept in my clothes. This meant that I had two hours to figure out how to cure myself of sadness. Seeing as tv wouldn't work, I turned to my next best friend, who, after being given two long minutes to set itself up, proved as worthwhile as always.

The internet.

I had left my computer in sleep mode since last Thursday—_last Thursday, when life was normal, when your missing brother wasn't first on your mind and the images of a shouldn't-be-real Wendigo haunted your dreams._

I checked the tabs I had open—YouTube, facebook, hotmail, tumblr. I opened a new one, typing in 'google' in the address bar.

_How to cure sadness_. Search.

I clicked on the first option, figuring it was probably legit enough.

_The first thing you should figure out is if you are suffering from sadness or apathy. Both may be symptoms of clinical depression, descriptions of various forms shown below. The first form, seasonal affective disorder—_

I was never really a fan of big words.

That and this wasn't clinical depression. It was sadness with a _reason._

I clicked the back button, choosing instead the second optional website. This one, again, asked me to figure out the difference between sadness and apathy.

_Easy. Sadness._

I scrolled down until a subtitle caught my eye, this one being 'Sudden, heavy sadness'. I looked at the paragraph beneath it, skipping over the larger words. I came to the last few sentences.

_Suddenly remembering, or experiencing, a traumatizing incident can lead to repression and consequential anxiety and depression. Depression can also call on sad memories, leading you to believe your sadness has been caused by these incidents instead of the traumatizing event._

I read it over a few times. The rocks had been real, I knew that much. I could feel them in my pocket. But still, it sounded pretty wordy, and I wasn't one to doubt the always-true word of the internet.

Thinking on it further, I did notice a distinct lack of fear when it came to memories of the Wendigo. It was as if, though temporarily, the thought of the monster had fallen completely from my mind.

In a way, this made sense.

I closed my laptop and left for school.

...

On the way home, I heard the voice again. This time, I was _sure _it wasn't coming from my head.

"Please..."

I nearly sobbed. "Matt?"

Both of our voices were rough and unused, mine holding the memory of tears and his what sounded like the memory of pain.

The sky was gray, as always, and the air was heavy with soon-to-be rain. It weighed down on my head and shoulders, making them ache. I was much too tired for this, too tired for the terror that usually followed the voice.

I just wanted it to be Matt. So badly. I missed him.

And yet, hiding somewhere deep in my ribs, the familiar ache of terror surged into my heart. _Run,_ it said. _You don't know where this voice is coming from. Run to your home. Run from the Wendigo._

I gave into the fear, feeling it build in my veins. I didn't want this. Not today. I hadn't slept or eaten properly in a week, and the pounding in my head was making everything worse. I wanted to go home and sleep, curl up on the couch and forget about all of this. But most of all, in that one moment, I wanted to _run_. From the voice. From my terror. From my memories.

Everything was building up and nothing made sense. In one of those moments that defined me as a complete and utter idiot, I dropped my bag to the ground and walked into the line of trees.

I wanted to get myself to the stream, away from all of this idiocy. In any case, I had done a hell of a job convincing myself that the Wendigo was merely a hallucination, and I wasn't about to let go of this decision just yet, especially as it had taken me a week to cement.

Soon enough, I found the path, as familiar as the terror that held me. I didn't want to go through this. Not again. The sleepless nights, the distinct lack of food, the constant wariness and adrenaline. I just wanted the stream. I had my jacket on; I could fall asleep on the rocky ground, wake up after an hour and maybe feel better. Sleep usually did a good job of riding me of my headaches, after all, and I was sure that the terror would calm down when I was more awake and held a clearer mind.

My pace was fast enough, and I reached the stream in what seemed like only ten minutes. It was most likely longer, but I was so preoccupied in my thoughts and my legs seemed to move on their own.

As I sat down near the stream, hand placed flat against the icy surface, the thought of my mother passed briefly through my mind. What would she think if I came home late? She'd probably have a heart attack—I always came home on time, or at least called her first.

Still, I was nearly asleep, so any concern for my mother didn't last long.

"Alfred?"

I shrieked, jumping up. Wide awake. The voice was the same as the one I heard earlier—rough, jagged at the edges, unused. Hesitant, too.

Playing the role of the stereotypical victim, I answered.

"Who's there?"

My voice was a shriek, loud and frightened. The only thing I could picture was the Wendigo, pale skin and sunken eyes, emerging from the trees and ripping me to pieces. I sobbed. I was too young to die. I didn't want this.

My eyes took in everything from my surroundings, my ears picking up the slightest noises. I was on full alert. Directly in front of me, a twig snapped, and a shadow made itself known from between the trees.

The air was silent, heavy, damp. I could smell the rain.

And the rain, it would seem, could smell my fear. The air pressed heavier against my shoulders.

There was no verbal response to my previous question; instead, a figure emerged from the trees, hunched over and dripping black onto the frostbitten ground.

I wanted to scream. To run. But all I could do was drop to the ground, not even move my arms to shield myself as it approached. I lost myself in its eyes, specks of silver-violet in rings of black.

I wanted, so badly, just for this to be over. My heart sat uneasily in my throat. I felt like I was about to vomit. The creature—the monster—moved closer still, within arm's length. If I had wanted to, I could have counted every bone in its starved body; the skin was pressed against it so tightly. Its mouth hung open, exposing a row of sharp, blood covered teeth that emerged from its wounded mouth.

Blood stained the creatures golden hair, and the creature's hands, the deep red substance crawling up to its elbows. It dripped onto the ground.

Directly in front of me, close enough that I could feel its breath, the creature dropped to its knees, panting heavily as it stared into my face. Looking for something.

I stared back, unable to move.

Unable to call for help.

Unable to do anything as fear wrapped its frozen arms around my body and held me tight, held me in place, held my voice in my throat.

My stomach dropped. I was going to be sick.

I was going to die.

The creature, now only slightly taller than me in the positions we were in, closed its mouth, its eyes narrowing.

Its face was human.

As was the rest of its body, sure, but the human in its face seemed almost locked behind the pale, tight skin of the monster. It made it so much more terrifying; how human it looked. So similar, so different. Everything about this creature was just so... off.

Then its mouth opened again, moving as if the creature was trying to form words. Talking, without sound. It seemed hesitant.

"Al?"

The voice that ripped itself from the creature's throat was the same voice I had heard earlier.

I passed out.

...

The stream was gone.

That was the first thing I noted when I awoke. The second thing noted was the lack of rock beneath my body, seemingly replaced with something soft and warm.

The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was being at the stream, alone. I must have been with my mother—yes, of course, that was it. For some reason, my timeline seemed off.

In any case, I figured that I was home, on the basement couch. That would explain the softness beneath me, and the chilling draft.

I could sense someone beside me. They spoke, their voice blurred and softened by my still-waking mind.

"Alfred?"

"Hamburger," I responded. The voice chuckled. This annoyed me. I wanted a hamburger.

"Want."

I opened my eyes, ready to playfully shove away my mother. Ready for a hamburger, too. Or at least some food. I was starving.

Instead, my eyes met with a sight straight out of my nightmares. The violet eyes, the emaciated body—I shrieked, clawing at the ground to get away.

"Al, it's me, please, it's _me,_" the creature said, voice quiet and yet still so rough.

I shrieked louder. I tried to beg it to let me go, but the words just wouldn't form. That, and I couldn't stop screaming. My throat, by now, was quite raw.

"Please," the creature said, again.

I resigned myself to sobbing loudly. My tears made their way down my cheeks, hitting my hands and boots. I watched them fall, not wanting to look at the monster that was currently holding my legs.

Its fingers, skeleton like and much too long, had wrapped around my calves and were holding me tightly. The claw-like fingernails dug through my jeans and into my skin.

I tried, again, to form words. It worked, this time.

"A-Are you g-going to ki-kill me?" Sobs and hiccups interrupted my question.

"No," said the creature.

I sobbed louder this time, mostly out of relief. My arms gave out and I dropped to the ground, the possibility of the creature lying not even crossing my mind.

"Th-thank you," I whispered, sobs quieting down, slowly being replaced with hiccups. I glanced up at the creature, wary at its silence.

"Al," it said, "Do you recognize me?"

I shook my head. Of course I didn't. If I had ever seen this monster in my life, I didn't remember. I didn't want to, either.

I just wanted to leave.

"Please," it said, sadness playing with its voice. "Please, Al."

The way it spoke, though its voice was roughened and much deeper, almost reminded me of the way Matty had spoken as a child. So vulnerable. He could be strong, though, too, in the firm and silent way that his voice made itself known.

I sniffed, not wanting to break into another round of sobs. I wanted Matt to be here with me, not this monster. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me and tell me that everything was alright. That these past years had all been a dream. That the monster was fake. That _he _was _alive_.

I looked up at the creature's face, not wanting the beast to be real.

Its golden hair caught my eyes, somewhat wavy and falling just to its shoulders. That, with the violet eyes—

I remembered, the day that Matty had gone missing, how his golden hair had caught the wind as he stood in the open doorway. It was almost to his shoulders, then, and so, so beautiful. The contrast against his violet eyes. And his voice, quiet and hesitant as usual.

"I'm going to the forest, Al. Could you tell mom? I'll be back by dinner."

_I'm going to the forest, Al._

I looked into the bright eyes of the Wendigo, my heart coming to a near stop as it pounded in my throat.

No. No.

God, please _no._

"Matty?" I sobbed. It was nearly a whisper.

_Please, _I begged, _It's not true. It's not. It's not._

The Wendigo loosened its grip on my legs, a tear running down its face. Clear water against white skin.

"I've missed you, Al," he said.

His hands left my legs completely, coming to rest awkwardly at his side.

"Matty," I said, horrified. "Please, no, Matt, not you. Not this."

Matt drew back.

I didn't move.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note~**

More Wendigo!Canada in this chapter. Reviewers will promptly be given cookies.

...

I must have fallen asleep again.

I woke up, this time, to the same softness beneath me. I was sitting up, slouched over against whatever was beside me. I opened my eyes, this time remembering everything. The monster. Matt.

We were in a cave, I realized. My previous horror had obviously done a good job of blinding me to my surroundings. Beneath me, animal furs had been placed on the ground, which explained the softness that I had previously felt. My face was tight, my cheeks feeling as if they had been covered in plaster.

Of course, the tears.

I looked beside me, to see what I was leaning on.

Matthew.

My head was resting on his shoulder, in the crook of his neck. His shoulder felt bony and sharp, his skin frigid.

It took all of my energy not to shriek and jump in the opposite direction.

I was never good with horror movies, and now I was cuddling up to one. This. Wasn't. Happening.

He moved his head, his chin coming to rest against my temple.

"I'm sorry," he said.

I managed a weak reply. "For what?"

"For pulling you into this position," he laughed. "I just... you passed out. And I... I missed you, and you felt so _warm_..."

His voice trailed off.

"You probably hate me," he whispered. "You're probably horrified. I look like a monster. My voice sounds like two boulders rubbing together. You probably think I'm about to rip your throat out."

I had to agree with him on that one. "You won't, right?"

I wasn't sure if the following sound was a laugh or a sob. "No," he said, still quiet. His voice was so rough.

"The stones," I asked.

"Those were me. I didn't think you'd pay any attention to them, but when I saw you pick up the first one, the one with my name on it..."

Silence.

"I'm so sorry, Alfred."

I still didn't know why he was apologizing.

In fact, I was pretty confused at most of the things that seemed to be happening to me, at the moment. For one, I had extremely mixed feelings about this entire situation. Part of me wanted to shriek in terror, to get up and run, to never come back. This monster couldn't be Matt, he couldn't—not the soft, shy, quiet boy that I had grown up with. This part of myself was building in the form of a scream in my throat, kept down only by the other part of me, the one that wanted to stay.

The one that was so desperate for a chance to see my brother again that it would put up with the horror. The one that wanted to cry for what Matt had become but hug him at the same time. The one that wanted him _back_.

"Matt," I said, "I missed you."

My brother's hand came up to hold mine, his skin so white against my palm. His fingers so long. I saw his claws, then; long and dark and as hard as stone.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

"No," he replied.

"Would you let me leave if I wanted to?"

"Of course," he replied.

"Do you remember when you were human?"

"Always," he replied.

More silence. It was his turn to ask a question.

"Did you remember me?"

"Every day," I replied, my voice almost impossibly quiet.

"God, Matt, why?"

He held my hand tighter, fingers weaving between mine. He was so cold.

"I could tell you, if you wanted."

I nodded, hesitant about hearing his story. Still, curiosity got the best of me.

Matt shifted positions, my head falling from his shoulder. He came to rest in front of me, our legs crossed, entangled atop the skins that lined the floor. I had a better view of the cave, now. It didn't continue on very long—in fact, I could see the end of the short tunnel. The entire cave was about the size of my bedroom, vines dripping from the entrance and floor completely covered in furs.

I looked back at Matt, seeing how close we were. His antlers, each one twice the width of his head, entangled their spikes in the damp air and framed the space.

His eyes, so inhuman.

"Do you remember the day I left?"

"Yeah," I replied. "Of course."

"Well," he continued, "I had found a rock earlier that day. A gemstone, I thought. It was broken open and sparkling violet on the inside, though the outside was rough and pretty average. In any case, I had been playing in the forest a day or so before I had disappeared, and that was when I found the rock, near the stream. We had to go, though, so I put it on a tree stump and left it.

"I was going to go back and grab it, the day I disappeared. I wanted... to show it to you."

As I sat there, listening to my brother talk, it was nearly impossible for me to match the voice (as rough as it sounded) with the beast that sat in front of me. Yeah, his mouth moved in time with the words. But the sight of him still horrified me.

"In any case, by the time I got to the forest it was pretty dark out, it being autumn and all. I guess I got lost somewhere before the stream, ended up doing a big circle. It took me until nightfall to find the stream, and by then, I was pretty tired. I guess I ended up falling asleep on the rock. When I woke up the next morning, there was a form beside me. A Wendigo."

Matt paused to chuckle.

"I screamed pretty loudly, as you can imagine. Woke him up. I ran when he stood up, but he chased me, hunted me down—it took half a day of constant running, of climbing, of fear. I was horrified. Scared for my life. Eventually, when he found me, I guess a part of myself was relieved. No more running. Just taking what would be thrown at me.

"I did struggle, though. And I can tell you right now that if you're ever being attacked by a Wendigo, don't struggle. You won't win. It just makes it harder on yourself; more painful."

A small pause. Matt glanced down, looking somewhat pained. As scary as he looked, his words told me something else. I leaned forwards, my head falling against his chest. I could feel his hands come up to entangle themselves in my hair, his chin come to rest against the top of my head. Something warm dripped from his mouth. I figured it was blood.

Matt continued, his voice somewhat softer than it was before.

"The Wendigo was sick, old. Still much stronger than I was, but he didn't want me struggling. When my hand met with his chest to push him away, he grabbed my elbow and pulled, disconnecting it. Then he took it in his mouth and tore it straight off."

Another pause.

"It was... so painful. Numb, too, thankfully. But the pain was still there, so present, so intense. I couldn't scream for help. I couldn't move, couldn't do anything. He ripped my stomach open, after that. My legs. My neck. I just lied there, unmoving and horrified, as he ate me alive.

"My heart was last. He ripped it out, and I remember being able to feel his fingers against my heart before it left my chest. They were so long, so cold. And then, everything was over."

Matt shifted his head so his cheek was pressed against my hair. The coolness of his skin against the warmth of his blood felt odd against my head, but I shrugged off the feeling, instead falling into a deep sympathy for my brother.

Matt, of all people, didn't deserve that. Not him. Not at that age.

"If it makes any difference," he continued, quiet. "The last thing I thought about was you."

For a voice so coarse, it was impossibly gentle.

The room smelled like dust, and winter.

I closed my eyes and took a minute to breathe. I had started to cry. My eyes stung from all the tears, dripping into my hands as I balled them into fists in my lap.

"When you thought of me," I breathed, "What did you think of, exactly?"

I could feel his smile against my head, warm and sad.

"I thought of you as my hero," he said. "When the darkness came and the pain faded, I imagined that it was you, holding me in your arms and taking the pain away. Telling me it would be okay. The last thing I heard, it was your voice. Your breath. Your smile."

_God, Matt, _I thought. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

The voice came again, hesitant and careful. "I love you," he said.

I didn't answer, not right away. Matt wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against his chest, so close that I could feel his every rib against mine. His heartbeat against mine. Fast and uncertain.

"I know you could never love someone like me," he continued, a bit stronger. Still hesitant, though. "But, for the longest time, you were my hero. You were always there for me. I could count on you. And when I awoke as a Wendigo, the thing that broke me wasn't what I looked like. It wasn't that my life, as a human at least, was over. It was that, if you ever saw me again..."

He trailed off, his head falling onto my shoulder.

I could feel his tears.

"Then you'd only be able to see me as a monster," he finished, waiting for a reply.

A few minutes passed, silent as the forest.

"God, Matt," I whispered.

Nothing came out, after that. Only silence, and sympathy, a cloud of apathetic suffering engulfing the cave.

...

The afternoon passed with the two of us just sitting there. Personally, I had no idea what day it was—I didn't know how long I had been out for. I assumed it was Friday, or Saturday, though I couldn't be certain.

From Matthew's cave, raised slightly above ground level, a forest of undergrowth grew, thick and tangled, until it reached the trees. On this particular day, the air was cooler than normal, a sharp and biting wind spreading frost on all it touched. The forest of undergrowth, dyed in shades of sickened green and covered in a veil of white, looked magical. The top layer of frost, patterns spinning and running wildly on the topmost leaves, caught the sun's eye as it melted.

Though I hadn't seen my brother for years, and though I had missed him badly, I couldn't think of the words to say. And he didn't push it, either. In the end, we both seemed content enough with the silence, and it gave me some time to wrap my head around what was happening.

The sight of the Wendigo perched next to me still sent shivers down my spine. Its horns. Its eyes. Its bloodied mouth—and up close, the wounds seemed much deeper, much more intricate.

The blood danced around his lips, catching his teeth. Everything was red.

Matt caught my eyes as I examined his mouth.

"Does it ever stop?" I asked, talking about the blood.

"No."

"Do you know why it bleeds like that?"

"No," he repeated. "I really don't see the purpose of the blood, either. It just gets in the way."

More silence.

"Alfred, if you want to ask me anything, I'm not one to become offended."

I knew that, and the frail truthfulness of his voice secured the fact. We were sitting closely together, now, staring out into the forest. I decided to chance a question, one that had bothered me for the past day or so.

"Have you... killed... anything?"

He looked at me for a second. It was hard to tell, with eyes so inhuman, what emotion he currently held. I started to explain myself, just to be safe. My voice was shaky and rushed.

"You see, I—in the library—I looked up Wendigos, and it said how you'd grow bigger and all? And eat, you know... sort of that cannibalistic idea, there. Also said something about hunters, and spirits but I wasn't really paying attention and I don't think that really had anything to do with you, anyways, so just forget about that. But when I saw you, and you looked so thin, and with the rocks and all, and the date, well, I know you've been out here for a while, right? So I really can't see how you'd survive without, well..." my voice went quiet before disappearing altogether. I sniffled. Forced myself to continue. "Killing people."

I wasn't looking at him. I couldn't. I knew the answer, anyways, but for some reason I needed to hear it from him, just for confirmation. I didn't want to, though. My lungs ached from a loss of breath, and my heart seemed to have found permanent lodging in my throat, beating as it was. I tried to swallow around it. My mouth was dry.

"I'm always hungry," he said, his voice hesitant to reach my ears. "The first time... well, I was as scared as they were. They were so young, too. And when I pinned them down, all I could see was myself, and—" a deep breath. "I didn't want too, really, but I was so hungry. Like I had been starved for a year. And after it was all over, after the three or so minutes where I actually felt _full, _I was starving again."

My breathing caught on the air, frail, desperate, shaking. From what? For some reason, I didn't feel much fear. Just the adrenaline. Thoughts of blood and screaming dyed my thoughts a deep red.

"It was like drugs," he continued. "I tried to stop, but I couldn't. I just needed those few, precious minutes when I didn't feel like I was dying."

More breathing.

"I'm sorry," again. Still from Matt.

Still broken.

I glanced outside, fear pooling in my stomach. It crawled its way up from my throat to my mouth, gathering around the words I was building and holding them down. Fear didn't want me to speak. It just wanted me to sit there, head against my brother's chest, the fingers of a murderer woven through my hair.

They drew away, though, the fingers. I didn't know how long it had been, the two of us sitting there like that. Just us and our breath, and the forest of frost and dying leaves sitting tightly outside the cave.

Blood dripped on to the floor. Beside the tears. It was too much.

"You should get back to mom," he said. "She'll be worried."

More sitting. More silence.

"Yeah," I said, finally. We got up. I busied myself in brushing the dirt off my knees, pulling my jacket tight around my body. Chills ran from my spine, and I told myself that it was from the weather. From the frost. But I could still feel his fingers as they ran through my hair, still feel the blood dripping from his mouth. I probably looked like a murder victim.

He didn't say anything, when I left. Just nodded slightly to the right, indicating the stream. I wasn't worried. I knew the forest; I could find my way home.

I left the cave, still no words from my brother. He just stood there, watching me leave. Violet eyes on the back of my neck, once again, though this time not as piercing. Not as scary. Just heavy with regret.

I turned back. "I love you, Matt," I called.

The way his knees hit the floor of the cave was louder than a scream could ever be.


	6. Chapter 6

"Alfred!"

That was the first thing she said when I arrived home. Dirty, tattered, blood stains in my golden hair. But there was no anger; not yet. No, only concern.

"Alfred, where were you?"

I shot her a smile, which probably ended up looking roughly similar to the face a bear makes when it's about to eat you. "Missed me?"

She ran forwards, pulling me into a tight embrace. Hands in my hair, like Matt's had been, only hers weren't as gentle. For a moment, we stood there, relieved and confused and much too scared to move. I wanted to pull my arms up to hug her back, but I couldn't. It was too much, all in one moment; the beige walls, stunningly bright as they caught the sun's rays, bore into my eyes. My mother hugged me too tightly, her arms pressing into my skin. Warm. The smell of vanilla, too, and tiredness. Worry. It was all over her, leaking from her tears, her scowl, her embrace.

I watched it pool on the floor.

The pounding in my head had come back, ten times stronger than it was before. The tiredness, too, which I had managed to avoid on the walk home from the forest. Now, though, it caught me off my guard and beat me down. I just wanted to go to the basement, lie on the couch, and fall asleep as the cushions molded themselves to my form. Darkness, that's what I wanted. Darkness. Silence. Plaid cushions, died greyscale in the lack of light.

But no, not right now. Not when my mother was holding me as if she were afraid I'd break apart if she let go. Not when the only thing holding me up was the brightness of the room and the smell of worry on my mother. I needed to stay up, standing, for the next few minutes; forcedly awake and ready for the onslaught.

Her arms tensed around me, her mouth coming up from my shoulder to rest next to my ear. It was coming.

"Where were you?" she repeated, her voiced strained. It rose at the end in a forced question.

I realized that, in all that had happened to me in the past day, I had not thought up a valid excuse.

"At a friend's house," I lied, my arms returning her embrace. I wanted her to stay in this position, close to me, head on my shoulder. Like this, I couldn't see her face. Couldn't see the anger, the worry. Just hear the questions.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," I said. "I forgot."

"Al, I texted you seven times and you never answered." A quiet voice, like Matt's had been. Question replacing answer, pain replacing pain. A different kind, to be fair. But I had hurt her.

"I'm sorry," I said, straining to keep my voice even.

I was so tired, so lost. I wanted to collapse in my mother's arms and sob, cry into her blouse. Feel her arms wrap around my head in a familiar embrace. I wanted the vanilla on her clothes to wear off on mine, and the worry, too. I wanted her to hold me more than she was holding me now.

But most of all, I wanted to tell her about Matt.

I wanted to tell her that he was alive, that he was still out in the forest, thinking of us. I wanted to tell her what he had become, wanted to cry with my mother when she believed what I had said. I wanted to tell her everything he had told me; every word he'd spoken. I wanted to tell her about how his voice had changed; so rough, so much deeper than his voice before. How he hadn't used it in so long. I wanted her to see everything, too; see the dying forest be eaten by the frost. See the cave, so small, lined with the furs of long-dead animals. See her son, Matthew, so different than how she remembered him. See his blood drip into my hair.

But I knew she'd never see, and I knew that telling her anything would have been impossible. A lie, of sorts, in rebellion against everything that held me together, kept me _sane_. It would be confirming what I had seen, what I had witnessed, even if she didn't believe me. Even if she took my words as lies, or the mutterings of someone holding desperately to the edge of sanity. To me, at least, it would be admitting defeat. And I couldn't do that.

No; all I could do was let her hold me, and hold her as her form slouched into mine. As her tears hit the collar of my jacket. Lie to her to keep her safe, lie to keep any reason I had left in me.

For now, at least, I was insane. What I had seen had to be true only to me; after all, Wendigos didn't exist. Wendigos were creatures of the mind, trapped inside our imaginations and not to be let out. This had to be true; all logic pointed clearly to my insanity.

It was this acceptance of insanity, strangely enough, that kept me sane.

I knew, as well, that if I decided that Matt had been real, I would have had no control over the sobs that currently racked the inside of my body, held in my ribs and force of will.

And here, my mother was, still standing safely in the world of what was true. Though she was pressed against me, her arms holding us together, there was more separating us right now than had ever stood between us before. A glass mirror, one of the trick ones you see at carnivals.

She could see through it. I couldn't.

No—all that I could see was the reflection of myself, fallen to the floor and screaming silently. After all, mirrors couldn't reflect sound; only pain. And pain, at the moment, was soundless.

As soundless as my breathing as my mother held me close.

A gesture of comfort to someone far more broken than she knew.

_Hold me closer, _I thought. _Hold me closer and tell me you'll believe me, and in return I'll tell you a story. Don't talk, don't speak. Don't cry, either. I can't stand your tears. Just let me tell you what really happened, when I disappeared. When Matt disappeared, eight years ago. I know it all._

"You scared me, Alfred. I don't want to lose you, too," she said. I was surprised at her lack of anger. But when she pulled away, it all made sense—exhaustion had written itself all over her face, in the form of newly discovered creases and reddened eyes. She looked so much older than she had before. With everything that was running wild in my mind, it was as if my entire world had aged by ten years.

"Don't do that to me, not again," she said, her hands still placed firmly on my shoulders. "Promise?"

"Promise," I said, just wanting to lie down. Just wanting to forget all of this insanity, go back to the normal world for even a minute. I didn't want to let my mother out of my sight, though; she was my link to reality, proof that I still lived in her universe. In the world that had existed to me before, before last Friday had ever happened. When I was the hero to my mother instead of to myself.

Now, though, I was the hero to no one. Maybe my sanity, if there was any left to fight for. I would find it, I promised myself. Pull it back.

"Tired," I said, my eyes not quite meeting my mother's.

"Me too," she replied.

After another tight embrace and a few seconds of comfort, my mother retired to her bedroom and I to my couch. My mother, as she walked up the stairs to where she'd sleep, still held a shadow of worry on her face. As if she'd wake up just to find me still gone.

Two sons to nothing. Little did she know, she had already lost both.

One to the forest.

One to insanity.

...

After a night of refreshingly deep sleep, I was awoken to the sound of the coffee machine, which had been turned on in the upstairs kitchen. As much as I wanted to get up, my head was far too heavy and my eyes wouldn't stay open for very long, so I lay on the couch for another half hour, letting my body wake up.

It didn't want to, of course. The lack of sleep, over the past week, had made itself all too known last night, where sheer exhaustion had dragged me into a solid ten hours of nothingness. No dreams. No awakenings. Only the colourless black of the nighttime, received like a long-awaited gift.

It was great.

But now, now that the sun had wound its tendrils through the tiny windows of my basement, it was hard to fall back into the blackness. Even when I closed my eyes, my world held colour—a warm red, tinges of orange. Sounds were making their way into the basement, too, to accompany the coffee maker. The sounds of morning, at least in my house—the laundry door opening and closing, the tv coming to a start with a click and a buzz.

I waited a few more minutes, wanting to go upstairs and see my mom. Though I definitely wasn't a morning person, the few quiet hours at the beginning of the day _were_ rather nice, especially when a coffee mug was sitting between my hands.

It was familiar, too—the coffee, the quietness, the too-bright sun. And, really, all I wanted after these past few days was something _familiar_. Something that I could contentedly sit in, knowing exactly what would happen and when. Something I had seen before, something that wouldn't change.

I threw on a pair of sweat pants over my boxers, and headed upstairs, my head spinning from standing up too fast. The warmth of the basement couch was missed, now. But it would be warmer upstairs.

I opened the basement door quietly, letting it fall shut as I padded into the kitchen. Yeah, the sun was too bright. Yeah, I was still tired and groggy. It was okay, though—almost welcome, even.

"Morning, sunshine."

My mother. She was smiling, this morning, happiness showing itself through the creases near her eyes and the dark shadows under them. Traces of worry, now useless. Last night was over. It was morning, now, and I was still here; everything up to this point might as well have been a bad dream.

"Isn't it a little chilly out to not be wearing a shirt?"

I laughed, my voice rough with the shadows of morning. "You could say so."

"Don't tell me you slept in your boxers, again, Jones," she said.

I rolled my eyes. "_You're gonna catch pneumonia_," I said.

"You're gonna catch pneumonia," my mother mimicked, unintentionally. She hadn't heard me.

A coffee cup made its way between my hands, warm and welcome like the sunlight streaming in through the windows. I rubbed my eyes. Far too bright. Far too perfect.

The rest of the morning went by smoothly—no questions asked, just silence. My mother made pancakes and bacon, asked me if I wanted anything else. We ended up making eggs, too, and breakfast sausages. And then cookies, since the kitchen was already a complete mess. 'Breakfast' ended up taking three hours. It was fine with both of us, though; my mother, in any case, would be working from home for the rest of the day, as she had recently taken to doing.

Eventually, everything was over, the kitchen returned to its normal state after an hour or so of thorough cleaning.

...

"Mom, I'm gonna go to the basement."

"Sure thing, honey. I'll be up here if you need anything."

"Can I borrow your laptop?"

She paused, here. "For...?"

"School," I responded.

"Of course, sweetheart."

...

I opened the laptop, watching as the screen came to life with a flash of blue and a muted jingle. I quickly turned the volume down, sinking into the couch with a sigh. The screen in front of me turned black—loading. The laptop was hot on my lap.

The log in screen came up, this time music-less. I clicked on the guest account, quickly entering my birthday and watching as the word 'correct' flashed at the bottom of the screen.

Why was I doing this?

By then, though, it really was too late to stop. I clicked on the internet icon, waiting for it to load, letting curiosity take a hold of me. I knew that all this would accomplish would be an increased sense of nausea, maybe even nightmares. I hoped there wouldn't be any pictures. There was nothing worse than seeing the face of someone deceased, saved (as they were in life) as a collection of pixels. It was, in a way, looking at something that you really shouldn't be able to see. Holding onto something that was gone. A sick joke by well-meaning people.

It was like that, for a while, after Matt disappeared. The police had the pictures, of course. There were—if I remembered—four of them. All the pictures now etched permanently in my mind, after two years of not letting them go.

Now, it wasn't Matt, which I guess made things a little easier. But the fact that I wouldn't even know these people seemed like an invasion of privacy, cracking open something sacred that should really only be seen by the remaining loved ones.

In any case, the internet had loaded, a colourful display of letters as the Google homepage came into view. I clicked the search bar, watching the pixeled line flash in and out, waiting for me to type.

I was hesitant.

That didn't stop me, though, unfortunately. _Missing persons in the Upper Laynecroft Region. _Search.

The next page flashed into view, all too quickly, offering me a variety of websites that I _really _didn't want to select. I did, anyways. The third one down, offering a list of names, seemed promising enough. Hopefully no photos. Just an affirmation to what I already knew.

The website loaded, and I read the entire introduction paragraph. This didn't happen too often. I guess I was avoiding the list that sat below, distinctly unavoidable and all too present. The entire webpage took me ten minutes to read, ten minutes that would carve their message into my brain and not let go for a _very long time_.

_Missing Persons_

_In the Upper and Lower Laynecroft Region_

_This site, thanks to police files kept on the disappearance of persons, has collected a list of names shown below. This site is in no way to be associated with the police, or the regions itself. It is merely to remember those who have passed on, and who didn't receive the attention they deserved from the media, their cases being mostly hidden and kept secret by the region._

_For more information about the secrecy, click here._

Below this was a link, highlighted in electric blue. I clicked it open in a new tab, reading it quickly in order to go back to the list. It was as if some sick, masochistic part of me needed to see those names, even though it knew that I would carry them with me for the next little while. And it knew, also, how heavy names could be—the memory of the stone in my pocket, weighing me down, made certain of this knowledge. Though the names from the list could not _possibly_ weigh as heavily as the name of my brother, I knew that there would be quite a lot more. And, if math class had served any purpose over the course of my education, I knew that a collection of many little things can—when smushed together—create something very big indeed.

The second tab loaded completely. The background was a deep purple.

_Often, cases of suicide and missing persons are kept mostly hidden to the general public. Whether this be the wish of the family, or the wish of the township itself, the public display of names and photos can cause stress among those who witness the accounts. Increased numbers of negative activity can often impact the general population of the town, as well as tourist activity and, consequently, the prosperity of the town itself._

I exited the tab, something of a shudder running down my back. How many people had disappeared, their cases forgotten? How many deaths had gone unnoticed by the general public? And, finally, if so many people were disappearing, how could the town hide it?

_Because the number of the disappeared is nothing compared to the actual population count, Alfred._

That didn't matter, though. They—those who had vanished—were still important, at least to somebody.

I thought of Matthew, and the eight years that I went without him.

The first tab.

I scrolled down, hitting the list of names. Beside them, what the police accounted their disappearances to.

...

Geoffrey Rey, unknown, last seen near Percival Forest

Amethyst Emmett Selby, kidnapping

Raakel Kreine Kistner, unknown, last seen near Percival Forest

Charley Wardell, unknown, last seen near Percival Forest

...

I read through about thirty of the names.

A couple of the names were written in blue, italicized, and underlined. I selected one of them, the girl having disappeared of unknown causes. Last being seen, of course, near the forest.

The link brought me to a new screen—this screen being highlighter pink, decorated in sparkling gifs and pictures of dogs and soccer balls. At the very top, the words 'We Miss You' flashed in purple and blue font.

And in the middle of the screen, framed in gold and much too large to miss, was the picture of a young girl. She looked to be twelve, maybe thirteen. She was smiling, too—large and bright and completely carefree, a soccer field in the background and a soccer ball hugged tightly in her arms. It looked to be signed, too, but the signature was too small to make out, at least from the picture.

And above the soccer ball, the girl's face—golden hair and blue eyes, eyes that sought out my own and stared back into them. A reflection, almost.

She was so young.

It was hard not to imagine her, curled up in the snow, pretty golden hair splayed out in a bloodied arch. Smile gone from her face, replaced with a pained grimace and a stream of tears from eyes tightly shut.

Did he kill her quickly?

Or did he wait there as she suffered, drinking in her cries before ripping out her throat?

When I thought back on it later, it was pretty stupid, crying for a girl I didn't know. But I closed the computer anyways, shoved it to the side, curled up in a ball and lost myself in tears.

**... **

**Author's Note**

What, no note at the top this time? ... In any case, reviews are greatly appreciated~


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note**

Sorry about the wait D: I mean, I know it wasn't that long, but I was used to updating this every day. Oh well.

Aaaanyways, this chapter is a little longer, which I'm happy about. No new warnings (correct me if I'm wrong). Hopefully I'll start updating faster again. School's just a little crazy right now~ Also, to reply to a question in a review (which was anonymous, so I couldn't reply just to them), I _am _hoping to build at least a slight romance between Matt and Alfie (as stated in the first chapter), but there will be no yaoi. Or... there _might_ be, but it would be as vague as hell, 'cause I'm really not one for an all-out yaoi scene. It would murder the fic brutally. The M rating on this fic, 'cause of this, is mostly for language and violence (which will increase in later chapters).

That's about it.

And, as always, reviews are very much appreciated!

... ... ...

Saturday.

For some reason, probably just to satisfy my own idiotic curiosity, I needed to get back into the forest. Find matt. I knew that, after realizing what I had done after thirty minutes of trekking through the forest, I would most likely spend the rest of the walk kicking myself for my stupidity.

_A monster drags you to its cave and you convince it to let you go, and the very next day you go right back. Verrry smart, Alfred. Make your mother proud, there._

It was useless, though—talking to myself. A part of me was well aware that this 'monster' was my brother. And, because of the stupid curiosity that had stuck with me for the past few years of my life, I knew that I would eventually get back to his cave. To ask questions, of course. There were so many—did he ever see me walking home before? Why hadn't he tried to contact me? Were there _other _monsters in the forest?

These thoughts had been quite content to make my mind their home, at least _that_ morning. I could see my mother peering at me as she did her work, probably wondering why I was sitting, staring, doing nothing. Yeah, she was used to the attention span of thirty seconds that I seemed to have been born with. With me sitting there, doing nothing, it probably startled her. I guess, if I had seen myself, I would have been pretty freaked out, too. But she didn't ask any questions.

My voice was still rough from the four-day freak out, so I didn't bother talking. I wanted to, though. I wanted to tell my mother everything, let her hold me like she had when I first came home. That was probably another reason why I kept my mouth shut—I was scared that, if I opened my mouth to say something, everything would spill out and I wouldn't be able to stop it. And then, consequentially, my mother would think I was insane and I'd end up spending the rest of my life tied up in a pillow suit having nightmares of a cannibalistic monster.

Another question. They didn't seem to stop. _Was it still cannibalism if Matt wasn't, exactly, human?_

I was dying, here. And it didn't help that I was sitting still with my mouth shut. I needed to scream, run, move—do _something_. I was going insane. First it was talking to myself. Next thing I knew, I'd be throwing birthday parties for the voices in my head.

_Head friends are the best friends!_

Again, I fell into the apathetic routine of command; action. Stand up. Walk forwards. Enter the kitchen. Open the fridge. I repeated the steps clearly in my mind, following them down to the tiniest details. Your ear is itchy—scratch it. Move the bottle in the fridge to see what's behind it. Glance to the side to check for your mother.

I was scared that, if I went back to acting normally, I would slip up. I could be a real idiot sometimes, and I knew it, too. I'd say something, do something—and it would give everything away. It was strange, too—the fear of slipping up like this, as though I thought I wasn't in control of my body, was _real_ and intense. As intense as the fear I had felt when I first spotted my brother. This fear, though, was paranoia, whereas the other had been panic. Adrenaline.

Still, the symptoms were the same. Racing heart. Sweaty palms. Shaky hands; I almost dropped the carton of orange juice as I lifted it from its shelf. I could see it in my mind as it hit the floor and burst open, spraying orange juice everywhere, soaking my feet.

I placed the carton on the counter.

I started planning, now, my thoughts just as robotic and controlled as my movements. I drew a map of the forest in my mind, stretching the map's boundaries to include the town, the school, my home. On the side was a growing list of excuses to escape the house.

I slid a dotted line down from my house to the forest, up to the stream where Matty had made his second real appearance. I figured that if I yelled loud enough, he'd find me. And it wouldn't matter if I yelled; nobody would hear me, not _that_ deep in the woods. I could do whatever I wanted to—yell, scream, run. Run as far and as fast as I wanted, feet pounding into the earth. Beating the leaves into the ground. No one would know.

Here, I was trapped. Suffocating. What had seemed so familiar and welcome to me yesterday was a prison, now. And my insanity was growing, here, telling me that I _needed_ to get out. If only to be able to breathe, to stretch my arms and not hit solid, unbreakable walls.

Upstairs, my mother was typing on her computer, stationed at her make-shift office in the hallway. Her typing was rhythmic, catching the seconds as they fell from the clock.

_Click. Click. Click._

The backspace button went a few times, still in time to the seconds. I could hear the separate keys from here.

Beside me, a housefly, one of the last stragglers from the summer, was buzzing around the kitchen's light. I remembered, somewhere, hearing that a housefly hummed in the key of F. Or was it F sharp? The key, whatever it was, seemed to clash so loudly and violently with the beat of the keys from the upstairs. My ears ached. I had never felt this way about things so small and insignificant before, but now they were the world to me. Was I trying to distract myself?

A car drove by in the distance, shaking the road.

_Buzz._

_Click, click, click._

_Buzz._

Another car. Another.

Before I knew it, I was standing next to my mother, no memory of ever climbing the stairs. How had I gotten here? The question sounded in my head as my voice came, seemingly from a different person. I didn't know what I was saying, or about to say. The me inside—trapped in my head, watching as the world passed around me—waited for my voice to betray me, spill everything. Waited in fear, frozen.

"I'm not feeling well," the voice said, shallow and breath-like. It was forced out from my lungs. "I need some fresh air. Can I go outside for a while?"

My mom's reply came, distracted, her eyes still glued to her work. "Of course, hun."

"I'll be back before dinner."

"Of course."

And then, after another seeming lapse in my memory, I was standing outside. The door on my back, cold and hard. I glanced down at myself. Boots, jacket, the silhouette of a knife in my holder. The jacket covered it, as always. It still caught the cold air, though, and bit in to my skin as it was roughly forced against it.

Trying to forget about the confusion of what had happened, or why I was outside and not upstairs next to my mother, I fell back into the military-like commands. I could drop them when I hit the woods; but now, I didn't want to chance it.

_Matty, I'm scared. Not of you, but of my voice, my body—something's going to happen. You know that feeling, right? Tell me you know what I'm going through. Tell me it'll be okay. _

The infernal buzzing of the housefly, at least, was gone from my ears. As were the keys. Car still drove by, but their appearances were irregular and unexpected, a welcome contrast to the commands issued from my mind.

_Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Turn the corner. Check for cars._

I was a little kid again, hearing the commands of an adult as they taught me how to walk alone safely. My mother, perhaps; trailing behind me to remind me to check for cars when I crossed the road. I was seven; carefree, concentrating hard on pretending that I was alone.

Nine years later, and I _was_; alone, that was. No mother. Just me, and the voice inside my head that told me what to do. For the moment, it was my God. I obeyed its every command. Its word was law. If I disobeyed, I fucked up, and something bad would happen.

_Right foot. Left foot. Keep to the sidewalk._

It continued like that. Everything always did; I'd fall into a pattern, and things would continue. Eventually, the pattern would change, but then it would become normal and accepted, and things would continue again. Dragging me through my life as time sped on. It always did. Continue. Continue.

...

I came to the stream after a long hike, out of breath from overestimating my stamina. I'd stuck to the 'command, action' idea just to be on the safe side. Wouldn't want a family to walk by while I was flipping out and screaming about Wendigos. Might scare them.

At the stream, though, I was pretty much certain that I was safe. Nobody really came this far out, if they came to the forest at all. And nobody knew about the stream. This was _my_ place.

I gave it a shot. "Matty?"

My voice was hesitant and quieter than I had expected, hitting the trees and falling limply to the forest floor. Dead, unheard. I tried again.

"Matt?"

Stronger, now. My voice still sounded weird, though, when it was the only thing I could hear. Other than the rustle of leaves and wind, but those natural-like sounds didn't fit at all with the ones I was making. I felt, for a few seconds at least, as if I _really _didn't belong there. That the forest wanted me _out._

_Are you insane? _It asked. _Save yourself!_

I humoured my insanity and responded. _Nope. Too stupid._

This acceptance of my _fucking dumb-ass stupidity_ was really what kept me there, waiting for Matt. I didn't flip out, even though I had very much expected something of the sort to happen. I guess it was because, in the forest, I could breathe; everything was open and free. I knew I could flip out if I wanted to, and that was enough to keep me from doing anything rash. The cold air, sharp and biting like the knife by my pocket, filled my lungs and made them burn. I embraced the feeling, breathing deeply. Even though a part of me knew that I was alone and vulnerable, I felt so much clearer, safer, _saner_ than I had at home.

Five minutes passed, then ten. I didn't really mind waiting. I felt so great, out here, in comparison to the panic-attack that I'd lived through an hour or so ago. Everything was cold, too; refreshing, sharp, forcing me to stay awake. Calmly awake. _Aware._

After fifteen minutes of checking my watch, I gave another attempt. Where was Matt's cave, anyways? Could he hear me from here? Was he even expecting me to come back?

"Maaaaattyyyyyyy," I called, my voice rising and falling gently. Loud enough. If he was anywhere nearby, he'd hear me.

"Matt," I called again, just to make sure.

"Matt," again. To give him a trail, maybe? In any case, if I kept on calling his name, he was bound to hear me eventually.

"Matt, Matt, Matt! Matt! Matty! Matthew! Bro! Matt! Maaaaaaatt! Antler boy!"

"Antler boy?"

I jumped at the voice, which had come rather unexpectedly. I whipped around, turning as much as I could while sitting down. Matt was standing at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed and looking slightly exasperated.

"I heard you the first time," he said. "You think I can just teleport wherever I want? Sorry, no such luck. I have to walk, too, you know."

His emergence struck something in my chest. Fear? I hadn't really prepared myself for his appearance, which I realized now would take a bit of getting used to. I jumped up, anyways, forcing myself to run up and hug him. He didn't react, at first, probably surprised that I wasn't screaming in fear.

"Bro!" I tried, my voice a little shaky. "I missed you. Can I come to your cave?"

Matthew took a minute to respond. "Sure?" he said. "I mean... in all truthfulness, I really wasn't expecting you back. I guess I thought I had scared you away." He gave a nervous laugh, hand on the back of his neck. "And it's a den. Not a cave."

"Whatever, dude," I replied. Keeping a casual tone with a cannibalistic deer-man was slightly harder than I had anticipated. We turned around, and I followed him into the forest, trusting his direction. It was a small fight to keep down the panic rising in my throat. Why was I scared? He wasn't going to hurt me; therefore, I had no reason to panic. Simple logic.

His voice broke me from my thoughts. His voice was serious, now—a tone that was slightly unnerving when paired with his roughened voice.

"Alfred," he said. "If... if you're just forcing yourself to come here to be polite, I can understand if you want to leave. I mean... I'm well aware of what I look like. Don't think I didn't freak out a little when I first saw."

I took a deep breath. "You know when you're scared but you don't really have any reason to 'cause your safe and all? I mean, sure, I'm panicking, but I'm fine, really, just give me a few minutes here."

Matt shot me a look. Strike one.

"Look, I know you're not gonna hurt me. I mean, yeah, you're sort of a man-eating monster and all, but you're not gonna attack me, right?"

"No."

"Exactly. So I'm safe."

We kept walking, in relative silence now. I could tell that Matt was thinking.

"I'm not leaving," I said, more gently.

"I know," he said. "You're an idiot, you know that, right?"

I laughed. "So I've been told."

...

We got to his 'den' in good time. It wasn't actually all that far away from the stream; maybe about ten, fifteen minutes or so. Matt was still pretty quiet when we got in, sitting down against the wall on a pile of furs.

Pretty cold at this point, I grabbed one of the pelts, drew it around my shoulders, and sat down next to my brother.

"Don't you ever get cold?" I asked.

"No," he said. "Wendigos are northern creatures. The cold doesn't get to me. If anything, the summer's a bit of the drag, but more people come into the forest."

I could tell that Matt regretted the last sentence as soon as he had said it, so I ignored it purposefully. It had been obvious where he was going with it, anyways. A shiver of discomfort ran up my spine. I changed the subject.

"Do you mind me asking questions?"

Matt scoffed. "No," he said. "Not really. It was expected."

"When you got killed by the Wendigo... did you just wake up as a Wendigo yourself?"

Matt thought about this for a moment or two, head bowed towards the floor of the cave. He started talking, his voice slow and careful.

"When I kill people, like the Wendigo did to me, they don't come back. Which means... well, the forest is a living thing of its own, you see. An animal, in a way. I get that, now, as a Wendigo. And if the forest has attached itself to you—figuratively speaking, of course—that means something."

Another pause. Matt, today, seemed quite fond of silence.

"I'm sure you remember our childhood together," he continued. "You were always the popular one. And I was always the forgotten one in the corner, reading or drawing or doing schoolwork. Don't get me wrong; I was fine with that. It just meant that I was alone a lot.

"And remember when mom let me start walking home by myself? She didn't let you, though, 'cause you were... well, too immature, no offense." Matt chuckled. "Grade four, was it? For a while after that, I'd walk home almost every day. You'd stay back at school a lot, even when you were old enough not to be picked up. Sports, friends, all those things. So I walked home alone, most days. And the forest became... well, sort of special to me.

"I guess you could say I just found refuge in it. It wasn't anything deeper than that—just an escape, from the outside world. It was so calm there; peaceful, quiet, serene. I could go into the forest, just a few minutes in, and read in complete and total silence, not having to worry about anyone interrupting me. Mom wouldn't even notice if I got home late. I guess she always assumed that I had a social life.

"Anyways, when I was murdered, the forest saw that and brought me back. It's a simple being, really, but it has the purest intentions. I guess, in a way, the forest saw my loneliness, saw how everyone kept forgetting about me. And when it decided to bring me back, it made me into something that nobody could ever forget."

I listened as Matt's voice trailed off. I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. I let everything rest for a minute or so, before continuing.

"So... there are monsters other than Wendigos, then?"

"I don't know," he said. "I've never seen anyone else. Not even another Wendigo—only the old one, but he's gone, now. I went back and buried him, after he died. I've always wondered what he was like as a human. _If _he was ever human. He never spoke, of course—I was far away from him when I awoke, and I never really intended on striking up a conversation. Now, looking back on it, I guess it would have been nice, having someone who knew what I was going through. Too late now, though."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I am too."

More silence, the fear in my throat not allowing any room for awkward tension. I had no idea what Matt was feeling, right now. But I, myself—after crashing down from an adrenaline high—was quite tired. I could feel the panic start to sink as my eyes drooped. What time was it, anyways?

"Matt," I said, "What time is it?"

"You said you'd be home before dinner, didn't you?" came the reply.

I laughed. "That predictable?"

"Pretty much." He looked over at me, seeing my eyes half closed. "If you'd like, you can sleep for a while. You look tired. I'll wake you up in time to get you back for dinner."

"That would be nice," I said. "Thank you."

I felt his arms come around me and pull me closer, until I was leaning back against him, my head on his chest. Through the layers of furs that I had wrapped myself in, I couldn't feel his ribs or collarbone, and I was actually quite comfortable. I let my eyes close as he brought his arms up to support me.

"Can you promise me one thing?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper. I was nearly asleep.

"What?"

"After I wake you up, and you leave... will you come back, later?"

I hummed, burying my face in the furs. "Of course."

I could feel his smile on my face as I drifted off into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

"I made you something."

These were the words that held my mind while I made my way back through the forest, a previously unknown object clutched tightly in my arms.

For the past two weeks, I had made regular visits to the forest, to see my brother. Usually, they were little more than ten minutes in the forest after school, the two of us talking quietly near the road, far enough into the trees to remain hidden. There were times, though, when my mother would work late. A key to my house strung across my neck, I'd make my way to Matt's den and stay for an hour or two. These were my favourite days.

The hours between the morning and the visits to Matt were filled by school, save for the weekend. During these hours, I was unfocused, paying little to no attention to what was happening in my classes. And, compared to the past month or so, I was a lot happier than I had been, a lot lighter. I'd joke around. Talk back to the teachers, even, if I was having an especially good day. My friends noticed, my teachers stopped worrying about my sudden change of attitude, my marks plummeted, and I couldn't have been happier. I was, more or less, back to the normal me. There were a few changes, of course—I was still more serious, less outgoing. And my mind, too, wasn't drifting off to thoughts of sports events or weekend parties. During school, it was near to impossible not to spend the entire day thinking about Matt.

And then school would end, and I'd rush out to the forest. Since my mother had noticed a lift in my attitude, she assumed I was coming home a few minutes later than usual because of a boost in my social life—talking to my friends after school, perhaps? It wasn't a huge deal, in any case, since ten minutes didn't affect any routines we had going.

All in all, everything was much, much better than it had been.

And, after two weeks of awesomeness, I was quite aware of this, as I trekked back through the woods. In my arms, a pile of furs was crumpled in a heap. They had been cut apart with make-shift scissors, sewn together with who knows what. It was, as Matt had explained, a coat. A tumbling back of furs would attach with leather cords in the front, done up in an 'x' shaped pattern. The claws of what looked to be wolves decorated the collar. And, when I put it on, I could flip the head of a wolf over my own, like a hood. I had to admit, I looked _pretty _badass. I would hide the coat near the border of the forest; exchange it with my own whenever I visited Matt. I'd miss my bomber, sure. But the fur coat was a lot warmer.

Tomorrow was Saturday, and my mother would be out. I'd set my alarm and spend the day with Matt, in the forest, catching up on eight lost years.

...

When I was younger, about four years of age, we had a cat.

The cat's name had long since vanished from my memory, along with the memories of what the cat had been like when it had been alive. Any thoughts relating to the cat, any experiences or emotions that tied themselves to its memory, had vanished when the cat had died. In my mind, this made sense—I didn't really have any reason to remember the cat, as it played little or no importance in my life.

I do, however, remember its death.

It was in my lap, when it happened. My mother had called me out from school, which sparked a slight excitement at the thought of skipping half a school day. I was young, you see; much too young to fully comprehend what was happening. In any case, I was soon at home, the cat's dying body sprawled out across my legs.

Here, my memories come on strongly; I could remember every detail of the event, down to the clothes I had been wearing, down to the wide open eyes of the cat and the look of stress on my mother's face. She had been so young, back then.

My brother was there with me, too, just as innocent. He was pressed up against me, as close as he could get to the animal. His hand was placed on its side, rising up and down in frantic, rushed movements as the cat breathed out the last of the life remaining in its lungs.

The memory, strangely enough, comes on in a set order of what had happened, much to the chagrin of my anti-mathematical mind. The first stage of the cat's death was the slight twitching of its body, the jerking in its limbs and ribs and neck as its body shut down. My mother, of course, had explained this to me.

The next stage came on in the utter stillness of the dying animal, all movement reduced to heavy panting and a set glare as the creature refused to shut its eyes. At this point, Matt was crying, very softly. His head, resting against my shoulder, gazed down at the cat; relaxed eyes and relaxed tears as each set its trace on the animal's body. Tears on fur, gaze on gaze. At that point, though, I wasn't even sure that the cat could see, as dead-set as its eyes were.

On the other hand, I remained at complete alert, somewhat emotionless and innocently curious as to what was happening. Why was the cat doing this? It had never looked like this before. For some reason, the explanations of my mother were thrown from my mind, discarded and unused.

_No, _I could remember thinking. _There must be another reason for why it's doing this._

Thoughts of the animal itself were far from present in my self-centered mind. What the animal was going through was lost and un-pondered as I sat there, holding the dying creature in my arms. If any emotion was there, it was the pride the the animal was with me, not Matt. The pride that, for the last few minutes of the animal's life, _I _got to hold it. It was a special job, my mother had said. But this wasn't simply the empty pride of a young narcissist; no. Somewhere in my mind, past that thick skull of mine, I think that something registered this particular happening as a special event. And, consequently, I felt blessed to have such a privilege.

After it was over, and the cat's eyes had noticeably diminished in brightness, my mother helped Matt lift the cat from my lap and place in on the ground, over a towel. Matt and I proceeded to say our goodbyes, before my mother shoed me from the room to leave Matt alone with the animal. I didn't really understand why anyone would want to spend their time alone with something that was _dead_, but I didn't question it.

A good ten minutes later, Matt entered our room, sat beside me on the bed, and buried his face in my chest. I remember wrapping my arms around him as best I could, and holding him close. The need to bring him comfort was a far stronger memory than the death of the cat; maybe that's why I remembered the whole event.

Regardless, Matt and I sat like that for an hour or so, before being called down to dinner. At the end of the night, I was perfectly fine, untouched by the memories of a dying animal. Matt, on the other hand, still held tears in his eyes.

He always had a firmer grasp on death than I did.

I guess that was what made the murder so hard to witness.

...

I had travelled through the forest for about an hour, feet heavy against the frost-bitten ground. The thought of my brother drove me forwards when the wind changed directions, coming through the trees in breaths and whispers of winter. Frigid air, all around me, slowly dyeing the forest white as the newest season approached. I drew my coat tighter.

Beneath the coat was a hoodie, and beneath that, a flannel shirt. My dogtags had been tucked in against my chest, which had done nothing to prevent their metal surfaces from catching the cold. They stung as they sat against my skin, a constant reminder of the weather as I made my way between the trees. Winter was, inevitably, approaching. I wouldn't be surprised to see my expeditions into the woods decrease in number as the cold came on stronger. As it would. I waited for winter.

But for now, at least, a few trips here and there to visit Matt would go mostly unnoticed. The weather had yet to slow me down; nothing could stop a hero, not when he had a mission to accomplish. A duty to follow through on. And so I kept walking, especially thankful for the fur coat that was tightly wrapped around my body.

And then, the clearing.

Not as small as the one near the stream; no, this one was a lot larger, and the ground was covered almost entirely in white. The ground must have been pure rock to hold a coat of frost so thick. I had never passed through this clearing before, usually taking the pathway that wove itself around the area. But now, with a distant sound coming to grab my attention, curiosity dragged me—unwillingly—towards the unexplored land.

The trees that surrounded the clearing were thick and tight as I made my way through them, roots emerging from the ground to cover any traces of what might have been earth. I stood on the roots as my eyes took in the clearing, a tree away from my feet and years away from any logic.

At that moment, it was as if my mind was determined to take in everything that _wasn't _what sat in the middle of the clearing. It was true that, before I actually came to an awareness of what I was witnessing, everything else was taken into account—the sky, as an example, which was a stunning white. Perhaps entirely covered in clouds, but not gray; no, the sky that day was as pure and blinding as the frost that coated the ground beneath me.

White. Stark; untouched. I longed for my world to fall upside down, release me into the air and see me lost in the sky. Surely, such a death wouldn't be that bad—falling upwards, surrounded by the clouds and the long-lost dreams of flight, abandoned as a child. The cold would get to you, eventually. Or the lack of air. But a part of me told me that it would, nevertheless, be peaceful.

And, once my eyes were drawn back to the earth that I was trapped on, I realized that _anything_, at this moment, would be better than being forced to witness what lay feet ahead of me.

For once, it wasn't the creaturethat caught my attention. In fact, the hunched form that was bent over the bloodied ground was all but forgotten, shut away in a part of my mind that refused to acknowledge this _monster _as my brother. No; this was not Matt, not the boy that I had grown up with. Not the boy that I had spent the last two weeks thinking about. _Anything_ but. My attention was drawn back to the form on the ground.

The form, which on closer inspection would seem to be _human_. Destroyed, like the car wrecks that they show on tv. On the news, at least, they usually don't show the victims, or at least what they looked like after the accident. Here, everything was drawn out for me in a framed picture of exquisite detail.

I recognized his face as one of my classmates, a jolt of pure terror running up my spine. And nausea, soon to follow, winding its way up my throat and sitting bitterly at the back of my mouth.

The boy, whom I refused to name (for my own sake), was lying belly-up on the frost covered ground, a slowly growing pool of blood encircling his form. His arms had been torn at the elbows, not completely off but broken enough to be useless. His stomach, too, was open to the frigid air, skin hanging loosely at the sides. Above his stomach was his chest. It would seem as if someone had taken his ribs and roughly forced them open, revealing the heart and lungs that lay inside. From here, I couldn't see them, thankfully—only the pool of black as his blood spilled out from the open wound. And a pale yellow of what seemed to be a rib, the colour striking me as something entirely unnatural among all that black and red. It was too light, too _pure _to be seen amid all tha chaos. For a second, it caught the sun and glinted as brightly as the untouched snow, sickeningly ironic. I looked away.

The boy's face, bordered by a mess of dark blonde hair, remained untouched. There were scratches on his neck, yes, but his eyes and nose and mouth were completely devoid of any blood. His head, lying in the pool of black, was tilted back to allow his eyes to meet mine; or so it would seem, in the state of shock that I sat in. I stared back at him, unable to move. Bile rose in my throat. Somehow, it had made its way around the pulsing of my heart.

I saw the boy's mouth move, then, though I wasn't certain if it was actually him or just my imagination. His eyes were red—the boy's—and filled with tears, tears that had streaked down his face and were now only shadows of what had happened. Scars, of sorts.

And then, all too suddenly, the boy flipped his head around and coughed out blood onto the ground, letting his mouth hang open as more seeped out. His face was no longer visible, only the mess of dark blonde hair, dirtied by his blood.

And so, somewhat unconsciously, my vision was pulled upwards, eager to take in everything that was happening. And this, when I look back on the moment, was when everything finally hit me. When everything came to an unfortunate conclusion, a realization better off left untouched.

The creature, hands holding tightly to the boy's sides and face buried in his chest, raised its head and became aware of my presence. Its mouth held more blood than usual, the red colour dripping from its chin. Mouth open, as it had been at our first encounter.

Its mouth closed, opened, closed again, formed a word. The word was spoken slowly, dragged out like something that didn't want to be let go. I couldn't hear it, not when my head was pounding and my entire world had faded to a gentle buzz. But I could read its lips.

_Alfred._

Not a question, a statement. Pained, and tumbling out from the monster's mouth, its eyes broken as it held a broken body beneath it.

I turned around, then, and ran, ran from everything that had happened. I wasn't scared of the monster following me; not anymore. I knew that it would stay back in the meadow, unmoving as I left, eyes trailing my steps. As always. A routine dropped, it would seem, over the past month or so; abandoned, only to be picked back up.

So different, though, this time. For one thing, I didn't know where I was going—I was only running, running to get further away from what I had witnessed. Running to forget everything, if it was possible. And, for another, there was a distinct—and somewhat startling—lack of fear. Instead, a numbness had spread its way through my body, picking up my mind and holding it free of any thought or emotion. In a way, it felt as if I had been separated from my body, and I was floating above myself as I ran. Yeah, my feet hit the ground, and I moved forwards. But I couldn't feel it when my skin met with the ground; couldn't feel the wind as it tried to push me back. The wave of terror was over, replaced by the numbness, and an unchanging sense of cold.

I didn't know how much time had passed. But it had been enough to see me lost in the forest, the forest being the last place I wanted to be found in at the moment. Roots of trees came up to tangle with my feet. My running started to slow, too, as the numbing fear was replaced with a familiar exhaustion.

Before my mind completely shut down, I could remember leather cords around my fingers as I ripped them from their seams. And then, the silhouette of some shapeless object as it caught the air, the head of a wolf coming to meet the ground with a heavy thud.

I continued to run, after that, all sense of cold lost on my skin.

... ... ... ... ...

**Author's Note**

Thanks for waiting for the update. And for the reviews. I've gotten more for this story than I had expected, seeing as it's my first. All of them are very, very appreciated, and welcome! Even constructive criticism, as prevously mentioned.

Also, I really like this chapter. Just putting that out there. Hopefully I'll start updating faster... procrastinate on my school work...

UPDATE: I changed the colour of the boy's rib. No more need to panic, people. The balance of the world has been restored. Phew.

That's about it. Thanks for reading~


	9. Chapter 9

Time had passed. Of course.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, a dying curiosity had made its point in trying to remember the lessons from my two years at boy scouts back in grade two. The position of the sun had something to do with time, right? But did it start in the east or west? And what was the point in knowing the time if you didn't even know how many nights had passed?

_Stop being so dramatic, Alfred. It hasn't even hit night yet. Trust me, if you tried running nonstop for more than four hours, you'd be out cold._

I was still in the forest. After bolting from the clearing without any thought of direction, and consequentially getting myself hopelessly lost, I knew it would be a while before I found my way home. Sure, the forest was familiar enough, but only up to the stream. Or to Matt's den, anyways, though it was only a little farther away. By now, I was probably far from any familiar ground.

The ground held a thin layer of snow, now, which caught my feet as I walked. It seemed to be the only sound, at the moment—the ever incessant crunch of boot on snow as I moved forwards, one step at a time. I knew that I was lost. But for some reason, it didn't even cross my mind to stop walking.

Was I moving farther away from home? What time was it, exactly? My mother would be home by now, no doubt. Probably worried, if enough time had passed. It was nowhere near nightfall. But dinner had probably come and gone.

For a moment, I considered calling my mother. My cellphone was tucked into the pocket of my jeans, tight against the fabric, silent and cold like the rest of the forest. I knew that it would take me only seconds to grab it, flip open the keyboard, and call my mother. _Seconds._ But that idiotic part of me, which had the annoying habit of popping up at the wrong moments, decided that it would be much too humiliating to call my mother only to tell her that I had gotten lost in the forest for no particular reason. Not to mention, there was a possibility of her stumbling across a bloody clearing while trying to find me.

Finally, it would take her at least two hours, and by then it would be dark.

_I might as well play survivor-man for a night. _

This was about the time when I felt a sudden, heavy regret of having ditched the fur jacket. Even though it really was the last thing I wanted to wrap myself in at the moment, I would be quite cold without it.

And so, inwardly kicking myself, I found a nice spot in a tangle of roots and sat down. I didn't want to lie down, yet—no, it was too early. I'd wait.

The next hour or so passed _excruciatingly _slowly. I was in a heated argument with myself the entire time. What the hell was I doing? Thinking I'd just curl up and spend the night in a forest with no consequences? I was a complete idiot. Still, I didn't move. I just sat there, stubbornly, refusing to do anything but blink and breathe and constantly open my phone to check the time. I would not stand up, not retrace my steps back to the forest's edge. For all I knew, they'd be gone in the morning, gone and covered by a new layer of snow.

A layer to cover the forest, the bloodied clearing, my sleeping form. A blanket to cover my house, where my mother would be safe and warm and most likely pissed off at me for not calling.

_Call your mother, Alfred. Just get over yourself and do it. If you refuse to stand up or do _anything _useful, at least take out the goddamn phone and call your mother._

I took out the phone. It surprised me at how easily my arm moved, opened the phone, dialed her number. It was as if I was separated from myself by a glass wall, able to see what I was doing but unable to act or move or respond. It was robotic. I watched her number type its way across the screen, flashing green and yellow as it dialed home.

Three rings. Then her voice, slightly muffled by anger and a bad connection.

"Alfred! Where the _hell _are you?"

I prepared myself to tell her that I was in the forest, completely lost, sitting in a cluster of tree roots with only my cellphone and a thin jacket as company. I didn't have an excuse for my current situation, but I couldn't let that stop me from telling her. No—how else would I get out of the forest?

"I'm at a friend's house," I said.

My initial reaction to the robotic answer was to mentally slam a concrete block over my head. For the next few seconds, I probably pictured my death at least twenty times, all in horrifying and tragically painful situations.

_Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. You can't go back, now; now you've done it. What're you gonna say next, Einstein? That it's for school?_

"It's for school," I said, speaking over her angry voice in the background. I realized that I had just missed a good minute of her ranting. Oh well.

"It's important," I continued, ignoring her voice as it came in through the phone. "I'll see you in the morning, okay? I have to go, now. Goodbye."

I closed the cellphone, her rant unfinished and killed much too young. I'd face her wrath in the morning, I knew. If I found my way back. Which I would, seeing as I was completely overreacting and probably only twenty minutes away from the road.

But I couldn't go back now; my mother thought I was staying the night at a friend's.

This was my excuse as I curled up in the tangled roots, ignoring the snow and the cold and the awkward position as I desperately tried to convince myself that it was night.

_Time to sleep. Go to sleep. Funny that it's light out, seeing as it's two in the morning. Really. I'm not lying to you. Why would I do that?_

Eventually, my mind drifted off from conversations with myself into a shallow pool of dreams. It would be a restless, broken sleep, but I was fine with that. Morning would come.

...

During the night, a black silhouette stood over my body, leaving a trail of darkened snow in its wake. In a moment of semi-awareness, caught between dreams, my conscious registered the stiff movement of limbs as something was picked up and thrown over my body. It was heavy, whatever it was; it pushed me down and tied me to the forest floor, leaving me to drown among the roots as I sank back into my dreams.

The silhouette, framed in white by a determined moon, slowly turned around and left.

... ... ... ... ...

**Author's Note**

Oh man! Has it really been this long without an update? And now the shortest chapter ever to make up for it. Really sorry about that.

In any case, when I realized how much time had passed, I wanted to update right away, which is why this is a slightly shorter chapter. I promise longer chapters to come, now that I'm back! Which I am. Trust me. No more unannounced dropping off the edge of the world.

(or the edge of the internet, if that exists).

If you can forgive me for the sheer amount of time this story went ignored, reviews would be so appreciated! Every new comment just makes me so happy, you have no idea. Constructive criticism is also welcomed.

I will be back shortly with an update! Thanks for reading!

~ Awreon


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